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OCT  31  1933  ^ 


TRANSLATION^^ 


OTHER   RHYMES. 


BY 
HENRY   C.   ] 


(privately  printed.) 


PHILADELPHIA: 
1882. 

(Copyright,  1882.) 


COLLINS,  PRINTER. 


CONTENTS. 


A  Crusader's  Farewell  (Thibault  de  Champagne} 

A  Crusader's  Lament  (The  Comte  de  Poitiers) 

The  Church  (Fra  Peyre  Cardinal) 

Ballade  (Charles  Due  d'Orleans)  . 

Ballade  (Villon)  . 

Chanson  (Francois  I.)  . 

Rondeau  (Clement  Marot) 

Diffidence  (Ronsard)    . 

The  Poet's  Grave  (Ronsard) 

The  Jesuits  (de  Beranger) 

Despair  (Henri  Murger) 

The  Minstrel  (Goethe) 

The  Loved-one  Ever  Near  (Goethe) 

The  Erl-King  (Goethe) 

To  my  Mother  (Heine) 

To (Heine) 

The  Pilgrimage  to  Revlaar  (Heine) 
Lorelei  (Heine)  ... 

The  Minstrel's  Curse  (Uhland) 
The  Castle  by  the  Sea  (Uhland)    . 
Honor  to  Woman  (Schiller) 
The  Erl-King's  Daughter  (Herder) 
The  Fight  with  the  Dragon  (Schiller) 


FAGE 

3 

5 

7 

io 

ii 

13 
14 
15 

16 

i? 

20 
22 
24 

25 
26 

27 
28 

32 
34 
37 
59 
42 
44 


(Hi) 


IV 

PAGE 

Ulrich  von  Hutten's  Complaint 58 

Aennchen  von  Tharau  (Simon  Dach) 61 

De  Contemptu  Mundi  .........  62 

Dies  Ir?e 66 

Drinking  Song  (Walter  de  Mapes)        ......  69 

Epitaph  (Martial) 70 

The  Vow  (Tibullus) 71 

To  Arislias  Fuscus  (Horace) 73 

To  Torquatus  (Horace)         ........  74 

The  Dying  Hadrian's  Address  to  his  Soul      .....  75 

Lines  suggested  by  a  fragment  of  Alcseus        .         .         .         .         .76 

The  Swallows  (Agathias  the  Myrenaean)        .....  78 

The  Freebooter  (Hybrias  the  Cretan)   .          .          .         .          .         •  79 

Bion's  Third  Idyll 80 

Hymn  to  Zeus  (Cleanthes)   ,         .         .         .         .         .         .         .81 

Guarinos  (Romancero  Castellano)         ......  84 

The  Death  of  the  Cid  (Romancero  del  Cid)           ....  89 

Moorish  Ballad 95 

Dante  (Michelangelo)  .........  101 

Laura  (Petrarch) 102 

De  Profundis        .  .         .          .         .  .  .  .         .         .103 

The  Nation's  Trial 104 

The  Holocaust 106 

The  Armies  of  the  Union 107 

The  Lesson  of  War     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .110 

Inscription  for  Gettysburg 114 


A  CRUSADER'S  FAREWELL. 

(THIBAULT  DE  CHAMPAGNE.) 

[Presumably  written  in  1238,  when  Thibault  was  about  to  set  out  at  the 
head  of  the  French  Crusaders.  The  cruel  lady  of  his  love  was  the 
Queen  Regent,  Blanche  of  Navarre,  mother  of  St.  Louis  ] 

DEAR  lady !  thus  it  is  that  I  must  go, 
Leaving  the  pleasant  land  where  I  have  borne 
And  suffered  all  the  ills  that  man  may  know : 
Yet,  leaving  thee,  I  hold  myself  in  scorn. 
God  !  why  exists  yon  land  of  paynim  foe, 
Which  works  so  many  faithful  lovers'  woe  ? 

Lovers  whose  severed  hearts  in  absence  yearn, 
Till  they  forget  that  love  can  joy  bestow. 

Dear  lady  !  without  love  I  cannot  be, 

For  to  it  all  my  thoughts  and  hopes  aspire, 

And  my  true  heart  will  never  set  me  free, 
But  blindly  follows  where  may  lead  desire. 


Yet  hath  love's  lesson  been  so  hard  to  me, 
That  how  to  linger  here  I  scarce  can  see, 

Denied  all  hope  of  her  whom  all  admire — 
The  loveliest  dame  that  e'er  heard  lover's  plea. 

Away  from  thee,  I  ask  myself  in  vain 

What  joy  earth  yet  can  have  for  me  in  store ; 

For  never  aught  has  given  me  such  pain 
As  leaving  thee.     My  heavy  heart  is  sore 

To  think  that  never  we  may  meet  again. 

Full  oft  shall  I  seek  vainly  to  restrain 
Bitter  repentance  as  I  leave  this  shore, 

And  thy  dear  voice  seems  murmuring  through  my  brain 

O  sweet  Lord  God  !  behold,  to  Thee  I  fly, 
Leaving  for  Thee  what  I  have  held  so  dear ; 

Well  may  I  hope  from  Thee  some  guerdon  high, 
Since  for  Thy  sake  I  lose  all  earthly  cheer. 

Now  for  Thy  service  all  prepared  am  I. 

Sweet  Christ!  to  Thee  I  give  most  trustfully 
Myself;  no  better  lord  can  I  revere; 

For  who  serves  Thee  upon  Thee  can  rely. 

My  heart  is  filled  with  grief  and  joyfulness — 
Grieving  that  from  my  lady  love  I  part, 

Joyful,  because  at  last  do  I  profess 

To  serve  the  Lord,  who  is  both  soul  and  heart. 


5 


This  is  the  love  which  words  may  not  express, 
Which  wisest  men  seek  ever  to  possess — 

The  pearl,  the  ruby,  that  relieves  the  smart 
Of  the  foul  sins  through  which  weak  men  transgress. 

And  Thou,  Heaven's  Queen,  who  hast  such  power  to  bless. 
Our  Lady !  succor  me  in  sore  distress. 

Let  me  love  Thee:   my  lady's  loss  convert 
To  gain,  becoming  Thou  my  patroness ! 


A    CRUSADER'S  LAMENT. 

(THE  COMTE  DE  POITIERS.) 

[Written  on  his  departure  for  the  First  Crusade  by  Guillaume  IX.  Due 
d'Aquitaine  and  Comte  de  Poitou  (1088  to  1126),  who  was  re- 
nowned both  for  his  poetry  and  his  gallantries.  The  Fulk  of  Anjou 
alluded  to  is  Foulques  Rechin,  one  of  the  most  troublesome  barons  of 
the  day.] 


I 


GO,  alas  !  to  exile  far 
Leaving  my  son  in  strife  and  war, 
In  dread  of  many  a  battle  scar, 
From  all  the  lords  and  barons  near. 


6 


Since  thus  I  'm  forced  to  bid  adieu 
To  my  broad  lordship  of  Poitou, 
I  leave  brave  Fulco  of  Anjou 

To  guard  it  and  his  kinsman  dear. 

If  Fulco  will  not  succor  bring, 
As  well  as  our  liege  lord  the  king, 
Seeing  his  youth,  they  '11  surely  wring 

From  him  his  lands  and  castles  here. 

I  leave  what  dearest  is  to  me, 
The  pomp  and  pride  of  chivalry, 
To  wander  far  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  sinners  find  the  fate  they  fear. 


THE  CHURCH. 

(FROM  "  LA  GESTA  DE  FRA  PEYRE  CARDINAL.") 

[Pierre  Cardinal  was  a  troubadour  of  noble  birth  and  high  consideration 
at  the  courts  of  Toulouse  and  Aragon.  His  life  is  said  to  have  ex- 
tended from  1206  to  1306.  He  was  no  heretic,  and  his  arraignment 
of  the  church  reflects  the  views  then  prevalent  throughout  southern 
Europe  as  to  the  ecclesiastical  abuses  of  the  time.  ] 

I  SEE  the  Pope  his  sacred  trust  betray, 
For,  while  the  rich  his  grace  can  gain  alvvay, 
His  favors  from  the  poor  are  aye  withholden. 
He  strives  to  gather  wealth  as  best  he  may, 
Forcing  Christ's  people  blindly  to  obey, 

So  that  he  may  repose  in  garments  golden. 
The  vilest  traffickers  in  souls  are  all 
His  chapmen,  and  for  gold  a  prebend's  stall 

He  '11  sell  them,  or  an  abbacy  or  mitre, 
And  to  us  he  sends  clowns  and  tramps  who  crawl, 
Vending  his  pardon-letters,  from  cot  to  hall — 
Letters  and  pardons  worthy  of  the  writer, 
Which  leave  our  pokes,  if  not  our  sins,  the  lighter. 

No  better  is  each  honored  cardinal. 

From  early  morning's  dawn  to  evening's  fall 


8 


Their  time  is  passed  in  eagerly  contriving 
To  drive  some  bargain  foul  with  each  and  all. 
So  if  you  feel  a  want,  or  great  or  small, 

Or  if  for  some  preferment  you  are  striving, 
The  more  you  please  to  give  the  more  'twill  bring, 
Be  it  a  purple  cap  or  bishop's  ring. 

And  it  need  ne'er  in  any  way  alarm  you 
That  you  are  ignorant  of  everything 
To  which  a  minister  of  Christ  should  cling — 

You  will  have  revenue  enough  to  warm  you ; 

And  bear  in  mind  that  lesser  gifts  won't  harm  you. 

Our  bishops,  too,  are  plunged  in  similar  sin, 
For  pitilessly  they  flay  the  very  skin 

From  all  their  priests  who  chance  to  have  fat  livings. 
For  gold  their  seal  official  you  can  win 
To  any  writ,  no  matter  what 's  therein. 

Sure  God  alone  can  make  them  stop  their  thievings. 
'Twere  hard,  in  full,  their  evil  works  to  tell, 
As  when,  for  a  few  pence,  they  greedily  sell 

The  tonsure  to  some  mountebank  or  jester, 
Whereby  the  temporal  courts  are  wronged  as  well, 
For  thus  these  tonsured  rogues  they  cannot  quell, 

Howe'er  their  scampish  doings  us  may  pester, 

While  round  the  church  still  growing  evils  fester. 


Then  as  for  all  the  priests  and  minor  clerks, 

Too  many  of  them,  God  knows,  there  are  whose  works 

And  daily  life  belie  their  daily  preaching. 
Scarce  better  are  they  than  so  many  Turks, 
Though  they,  no  doubt,  may  be  well  taught — it  irks 

Not  me  to  own  the  fulness  of  their  teaching, 
For,  learned  or  ignorant,  they  are  content 
To  make  a  traffic  of  each  sacrament, 

The  Mass's  holy  sacrifice  included. 
And  when  they  shrive  an  honest  penitent, 
Who  will  not  bribe,  his  penance  they  augment, 

For  honesty  should  never  be  obtruded — 

All  which,  by  sinners  fair,  is  easily  eluded. 

'Tis  true  the  monks  and  friars  make  ample  show 
Of  rigors  which  by  rule  they  undergo, 

But  this  the  vainest  is  of  all  pretences, 
In  sooth,  they  live  full  twice  as  well,  we  know, 
As  e'er  they  did  at  home,  despite  their  vow, 

And  all  their  mock  parade  of  abstinences. 
No  jollier  life  than  theirs  can  be,  indeed  ; 
And  specially  the  begging  friars  exceed, 

Whose  frock  grants  license  as  abroad  they  wander. 
These  motives  'tis  which  to  the  Orders  lead 
So  many  worthless  men,  in  sorest  need 

Of  pelf  which  on  their  vices  they  may  squander, 

And  then,  the  frock  protects  them  in  their  plunder. 


10 

BALLADE. 

(CHARLES  DUC  D'ORLEANS.) 

On  the  death  of  his  wife,  written  in  his  English  prison,  aftei 
Agin  court,  14 15. 

AH    Death  !   what  hath  emboldened  thee 
To  snatch  that  fair  and  noble  dame — 
She  who  was  everything  to  me, 
Of  all  my  thoughts  the  single  aim  ? 
Since  thus  my  mistress  thou  dost  claim, 
Why  hast  thou  not  me  also  ta'en  ! 
For  I  with  thee  would  rather  go 
Than  linger  here  in  cureless  wo, 
In  torment,  misery,  and  pain  ! 

Ah  !  she  was  bright  and  fair  to  see, 

Radiant  with  youth's  most  joyous  flame. 

I  pray  God  that  thou  cursed  be, 

False  Death,  who  could  such  beauty  maim. 
Hadst  thou  but  stayed  till  old  age  came, 

I  'd  not  so  bitterly  arraign 

That  felon  deed,  that  hasty  blow, 
Which  leaves  me  mourning  here  below, 

In  torment,  misery,  and  pain. 


II 


Ah !  lonely  left,  thus  torn  from  thee, 
Sweet  lady,  joy  is  but  a  name, 

Since  love  must  yield  to  Death's  decree  ! 
Yet  hear  my  promise,  that  the  same 
Heart-service  thou  mayst  still  reclaim 

From  me,  in  earnest  prayers  to  gain 
Thy  soul's  release ;  while  here  I  know 
But  sharp  regrets,  as  years  shall  flow 

In  torment,  misery,  and  pain. 

O  God  !  who  o'er  all  things  dost  reign, 
In  thy  sweet  grace  and  mercy,  deign 
On  her  forgiveness  to  bestow, 
So  that  not  long  her  soul  may  grow 
In  torment,  misery,  and  pain ! 


BALLADE. 

(VILLON.) 


IN  what  far  land,  pray,  tell  me  true, 
Is  Flora,  Rome's  most  noted  fair? 
Where  is  Archippa,  Thais  too  — 
In  beauty  a  right  royal  pair  ? 
And  Echo,  who  replies,  where'er 
O'er  lake  or  stream  your  voice  may  go- 


12 

Whose  beauty  mortal  may  not  share  ? 
But  where,  too,  is  last  winter's  snow  ? 

Where  is  wise  Helo'ise,  who  drew 

Unwitting,  to  the  cruel  snare, 
Poor  Abelard,  and  made  him  rue 

His  love  in  monkhood's  endless  care  ? 

Where,  also,  is  that  queen  so  rare 
Who  learned  Buridan  did  throw, 

Ensacked  in  Seine's  swift  current  there? 
But  where,  too,  is  last  winter's  snow? 

That  Queen,  Blanche,  both  in  name  and  hue, 

Whose  song  with  Siren's  might  compare  ? 
Beatrice,  Bertha,  Alice,  too, 

And  Eremberge,  of  Maine  the  heir  ? 

And  Joan  of  Arc,  whom,  in  despair, 
At  Rouen  burned  the  English  foe. 

Where  are  they,  Blessed  Virgin,  where? 
But  where,  too,  is  last  winter's  snow? 


Prince,  vain  enquiry  wisely  spare, 

Nor  seek  where  these  may  be  to  know, 

Lest  you  but  hear  this  refrain  bare — 
But  where,  too,  is  last  winter's  snow? 


w 


13 


CHANSON. 

Written  by  Francis  I.  while  captive  in  Spain. 

HEN  we  rejoice  amid  adversity, 
Why  then  adversity's  foul  self  we  see, 
Even  in  its  triumph  o'er  prosperity, 
Is  overcome. 


We  also  see  that  absolute  truth  in  some 
Firm  steadfast  bosom  never  need  succumb 
To  falsehood,  which  grows  ever  faint  and  dumb 
As  time  rolls  on. 

And  therefore  do  I  count  myself  as  one 
Contented,  though  my  hopes  be  overthrown, 
For  well  I  wot  the  good  that  comes  alone 
From  my  own  mind, 

Which  is  not  by  these  prison  bars  confined, 
But  wanders  freely  as  the  joyous  wind, 
Through  endless  maze  of  thoughts  all  intertwined 
And  ever  new. 

For  naught  a  man's  free  spirit  can  subdue, 
Nor  bind  his  resolute  will  to  laws  untrue  ; 
But  it  is  purified  and  strengthened  through 
The  travail  sore. 


14 


Which  serves  to  comfort  him  who  bears  it,  for 
All  trial  but  emboldens  him  the  more, 
And  the  stout  heart  on  honor  sets  its  store 
And  naught  beside. 

The  heart  rests  victor,  though  the  hand  be  tied  ; 
In  toil  alone  will  happiness  abide; 
Firm  will  against  ill-fortune  sets  its  pride 
And  deems  it  naught. 

Whence  I  conclude  that  well  that  deed  was  wrought 
Through  which  I  've  learned  that  fortune  's  but  a  thought, 
When  steadfastness  has  once  its  lesson  taught. 
And  what  think  ye? 


RONDEAU. 

(CLEMENT  marot.) 

IN  the  old  time,  love  needed  not  this  train 
Of  splendid  gifts  and  idle  flattering  show. 
A  lover  then  would  rate  the  world  below 
The  simplest  toy  his  mistress  might  bestow, 
For  heart  outspoke  to  heart  in  language  plain. 

And  if  'twere  crowned  with  bliss,  say,  do  ye  know 
How  love  would  last?     Why,  thirty  years  or  so  ; 


15 


Through  life  unchanged  affection  would  remain. 
In  the  old  time. 

But  now  we  scorn  what  we  to  true  love  owe. 

Falsehood  and  fickleness  unblushing  reign. 

Then,  damsels,  if  ye  would  my  heart  enchain, 
First  bring  back  love  as  it  was  long  ago, 
As  fond,  as  true  as  it  was  wont  to  glow 
In  the  old  time ! 


DIFFIDENCE. 

(IMITATED  from  ronsard.) 

WHEN  from  the  laughing  group  apart, 
I  saw  thee  wandering,  sad  and  slow, 
Communing  with  thy  secret  heart, 
And  listening  its  sweet  accents  low, 
I  longed,  O  how  I  longed  !  to  speak, 

To  breathe  my  earnest  prayer  to  thee, 
Again  to  call  unto  thy  cheek 
The  tender  smile  I  love  to  see  ! 

But  ah  !  my  fluttering  heart  denied 
My  voice ;  true  love  is  timid  ever. 

In  vain  to  meet  thy  glance  I  tried, 
Confused  I  shrank  from  the  endeavor. 


i6 


If  thou  canst  read  my  looks  aright, 
Or  heed  the  sighs  I  fain  would  quell, 

Then  wilt  thou  learn,  in  my  despite, 
The  tale  my  tongue  can  never  tell ! 


Y 


THE  POET'S  GRAVE. 

(RONSARD.) 

E  sombre  caves,  ye  fountains, 
That  from  yon  rugged  mountains, 
Leap  sparkling  forth,  and  glide 
With  laughing  tide ; 


Ye  mystic  woodland  shades, 
Ye  dim  and  leafy  glades, 
Ye  winding  rivers,  "hear 

My  earnest  prayer. 

When  heaven  and  fate  decree 
My  death,  and  I  shall  see 
No  more  the  awakening  ray 
Of  each  new  day; 

I  crave  no  lofty  tomb, 
In  old  cathedral  gloom, 
To  mock,  but  ne'er  delay 
My  sure  decay. 


17 


No,  make  for  me  a  grave 
Where  trees  their  branches  wave, 
Tossing  their  green  arms  wide 
In  joyous  pride. 

From  me,  let  ivy  springing, 
In  endless  verdure,  clinging 
O'er  every  rock  and  flower 
My  grave  embower. 

There  let  the  wild  vine  spread 
Its  tendrils  o'er  my  head, 
Guarding  with  shadows  deep 
My  quiet  sleep ! 


THE  JESUITS. 

(de  beranger.) 

[Though  not  in  themselves  remarkable,  these  verses  fairly  illustrate  the 
unceasing  warfare  which,  for  nearly  a  generation,  de  Beranger 
waged  against  all  abuses  of  authority,  temporal  and  spiritual,  gaining 
thereby  a  popularity,  inherited  by  Victor  Hugo,  which  is  one  of  the 
moral  as  well  as  political  phenomena  of  the  century.] 


T 


,0  Saint  Ignatius,  patron  sought 

By  our  small  saints  of  modern  times, 
Give  honor  for  the  wonder  wrought 
Which  I  relate  in  these  few  rhymes. 


i8 


By  treachery  which  would  be  most 
Shameful,  if  Saints  could  be  misled, 

He  made  the  Devil  give  up  the  ghost — 
The  Devil  is  dead,  the  Devil  is  dead  ! 

For  Satan,  finding  him  at  table, 

Cried  "  Drink  with  me,  or  shame  be  thine!" 
The  saint,  with  craft  most  censurable, 

Mixed  holy  water  in  the  wine. 
Poor  Satan  drinks,  and  taken  sick 

With  colic,  writhes  in  pain  and  dread, 
Then  dies,  like  any  heretic — 

The  Devil  is  dead,  the  Devil  is  dead  ! 

''Alas,  he  's  dead  !"  the  monks  all  cry, 

"Who  '11  purchase  now  our  blessed  wares?" 
"And  who,"  the  priests  respond,  "will  buy 

Henceforth  our  Masses  and  our  prayers?" 
The  Papal  conclave,  in  despair, 

See  power  and  wealth  forever  fled — 
"We  've  lost  our  father,"  they  declare, 

"The  Devil  is  dead,  the  Devil  is  dead  ! 

"For  we  shall  seek,  through  love,  in  vain 
The  liberal  gifts  which  fear  inspires ; 

And  who  will  rouse  for  us  again 
Fell  persecution's  waning  fires? 


19 

If  man  to  escape  our  yoke  can  hope 
The  light  of  Truth  abroad  will  spread, 

God  will  be  greater  than  the  Pope — 
The  Devil  is  dead,  the  Devil  is  dead  !" 

Ignatius  answers,  "Give  me  then 

The  Devil's  office  and  his  power. 
He  long  since  ceased  to  frighten  men, 

While  I  will  make  even  monarchs  cower. 
Plagues,  wars,  and  massacres,  and  thievings 

Will  bring  such  wealth  you  '11  all  be  fed, 
Till  God  shall  only  have  our  leavings — 

The  Devil  is  dead,  the  Devil  is  dead!" 

"On  thy  shrewd  head  may  blessings  come, 

And  on  thy  venomed  wit!"  they  cry. 
His  Order  soon,  the  prop  of  Rome, 

Sees  its  black  robe  affright  the  sky. 
"Now,"  say  the  pitying  angels,  "well 

May  tears  for  man's  sad  lot  be  shed. 
Ignatius  is  the  heir  of  Hell — 

The  Devil  is  dead,  the  Devil  is  dead?" 


w 


20 

DESPAIR. 

(HENRI  MURGER.) 

HO  knocks  so  loudly  at  the  door?" 

"Open,  'tis  I!"     "Thy  name,  I  pray. 
At  midnight,  though  my  home  be  poor, 
None  enters  in  such  heedless  way." 


"Open!"     "Thy  name?"     "The  snow  falls  fast, 
Open!"     "Thy  name?"     "Quick,  let  me  come  ! 

"What  is  thy  name ?"     "In  this  chill  blast, 
No  corpse  were  colder  in  the  tomb. 

"I  've  wandered  far,  from  east  to  west, 
From  south  to  north,  in  cold  and  wet; 

Benumbed  and  worn,  now  let  me  rest 
A  space  beside  thy  fire  !"     "  Not  yet ! 

"What  is  thy  name  ?"     "  They  call  me  Glory, 

Deathless  is  he  with  whom  I  stay." 
"Begone!  thou  phantom  nugatory!" 

"I  pray  thee  drive  me  not  away, 

"For  I  am  Love,  and  Joy,  and  Youth, 
Heaven's  choicest  blessings,  half  divine  !" 

"Begone  !     She  whom  I  loved,  in  sooth, 
Long  since  hath  left  me  here  to  pine." 


21 


"  But  I  am  Art  and  Poesy, 

Proscribed  by  all;  quick,  open!"     "Go! 
No  more  I  sing  my  faithless  she, 

Her  very  name  no  more  I  know." 

"Open  to  me,  for  Wealth  am  I; 

I  bring  thee  gold  in  ample  store. 
Thy  mistress  I  can  for  thee  buy." 

"But  canst  thou  make  us  love  once  more?" 

"Open  to  me,  for  I  am  Power: 

Earth's  thrones  are  mine  !"     "  Delusions  all ! 
Canst  thou   bring  back  the  vanished  hour? 
Canst  thou  the  much-loved  dead  recall?" 

"  Since  thou  wilt  not  thy  door  unbar 
Unless  the  guest  his  name  disclose, 

Know  I  am  Death,  who  bring  from  far 
The  only  cure  for  human  woes  !" 

"Enter,  grim  stranger,  enter  here, 

Disdain  not  this  abode  unblessed. 
'Tis  poverty,  forlorn  and  drear, 

That  hails  thee  as  a  welcome  guest. 


1  Enter.     Long  have  I  weary  been 
Of  life  without  a  hope  or  tie. 


22 


Oft  have  I  longed  thy  sleep  to  win, 
But  lacked  the  fortitude  to  die. 

"I  've  waited  for  thee,  nor  in  vain. 

Lead  on,  I'll  gladly  follow  thee. 
But  spare  my  dog,  for  I  would  fain 

Some  creature  here  should  grieve  for  me  ! 


THE  MINSTREL. 

(GOETHE.) 


"  TT  THAT  is  't  I  hear  before  the  gate? 
1/1/         What  sounds  so  sweet  are  ringing? 
'Twere  fitting  in  our  hall  of  state 
To  listen  to  such  singing!" 
As  the  king  spoke,  the  pages  flew 
And  quick  returned.     The  king  anew 
Cried  "  Bring  the  old  man  hither  I" 

"Hail  to  you  all,  my  noble  lords, 

Hail  to  you,  lovely  ladies  ! 
What  a  rich  heaven  !     Who  could,  in  words, 

Tell  each  star  that  here  arrayed  is  ? 
Be  closed  mine  eyes  !     In  such  a  maze 
Of  splendor  there  's  no  time  to  gaze 

On  all  that  here  displayed  is  !" 


23 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  at  the  word 
Burst  forth  in  strains  so  thrilling, 

The  knights  with  martial  fire  were  stirred, 
While  tears  fair  eyes  were  filling. 

Pleased  with  the  song  and  singer  bold, 

The  king  bade  fetch  a  chain  of  gold 
To  honor  him  for  his  singing. 

"  Give  not  the  golden  chain  to  me, 
But  to  your  knights,  whose  glances 

Of  fiery  valor  love  to  see 

The  foemen's  splintered  lances. 

Or  give  it  to  your  chancellor 

And  let  him  add  one  burden  more 
To  those  he  already  carries. 

"I  sing  as  sing  the  birds  who  dwell 
In  springtime  'mid  the  bushes. 

The  song  rewards  the  singer  well 
When  from  the  heart  it  gushes. 

But  might  one  guerdon  more  be  mine, 

I  'd  crave  a  draught  of  generous  wine, 
In  golden  mazer  blushing." 

He  took  the  bowl  and  drained  it  all — 
"  O  draught  of  sweetest  savor  ! 

How  blest  the  house  must  be  where  small 
Is  reckoned  such  a  favor  ! 


24 


If  all  goes  well,  think  well  of  me, 
And  thank  the  Lord  as  fervently 
As  for  this  draught  I  thank  you!" 


I 


THE  LOVED-ONE  EVER  NEAR. 

(GOETHE.) 

THINK  of  thee  when  the  sun's  dawning  splendor 

Breaks  o'er  the  sea. 
When  on  the  fountains  play  the  moonbeams  tender, 

I  think  of  thee ! 


I  see  thee  when,  upon  the  road-side  weary, 

The  dust-clouds  rise, 
And  when  the  wanderer  threads  his  pathway  dreary, 

Neath  starless  skies  ! 

I  hear  thee  where  the  sounding  billows  riot, 

In  angriest  moods  : 
I  go  to  listen  in  the  perfect  quiet 

Of  slumbering  woods! 

I  am  with  thee !     Though  distant  thou,  this  even, 

Still  art  thou  near  ! 
The  stars  shed  their  sweet  light  on  me  from  heaven — 

O  wert  thou  here! 


w 


25 


THE  ERL-KING. 

(GOETHE.) 

HO  rides  thus  late  through  the  night  so  wild  ? 
'Tis  the  father  bearing  his  little  child. 
With  tender  care,  in  his  sheltering  arm, 
He  holds  him  safely,  he  keeps  him  warm. 


"My  son,  why  hid'st  thou  thy  face  with  fear?" 
"Seest  thou  not,  father,  the  Erl-King  near? 
The  Erl-King  near,  with  his  crown  and  train?" 
11  My  son,  it  is  but  the  mist  and  rain." 

"Come,  dear  child,  come  hither  with  me. 
The  prettiest  games  will  I  play  with  thee. 
The  loveliest  flowers  are  blooming  there, 
And  golden  robes  shalt  thou  have  to  wear!" 

"O  father,  father,  dost  thou  not  hear 
The  Erl-King's  promise  in  whispers  clear?" 
"Be  quiet,  keep  quiet,  my  little  child, 
'Tis  the  rustling  leaves  in  the  forest  wild." 

"  Dear  child,  sweet  child,  wilt  thou  go  with  me  ? 
My  daughters  shall  watch  thee  tenderly. 
My  daughters,  who  through  the  night-dance  sweep, 
Shall  rock  thee,  and  dance  thee,  and  sing  thee  to  sleep !: 


26 


"O  father,  father,  and  seest  thou  not 
The  Erl-King's  daughters  in  yon  dark  spot?" 
"  My  son,  my  son,  there  is  nothing  here 
Save  the  willows  old  that  so  gray  appear." 

"  I  love  thee,  child,  for  thy  beauty.     Nay, 

An  thou  wilt  not  come,  I  must  force  thee  away!" 

"O  father,  father!  I  feel  his  clutch, 

The  Erl-King  hurts  me,  he  hurts  me  much!" 

The  father  shuddered  :  his  steed  he  pressed, 
While  the  moaning  child  he  clasped  to  his  breast. 
Through  the  toilsome  way  to  his  home  he  sped — 
In  his  loving  arms  his  child  lay  dead. 


I 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

(HEINE.) 

LEFT  thee  once,  my  spirit  madly  burning, 
To  wander  onwards  to  earth's  farthest  shore, 
And  find  if  I  could  quench  the  thirst  1  bore 
For  love  and  satisfy  my  heart's  wild  yearning. 


So  love  I  sought,  through  every  pathway  turning : 
With  outstretched  hand  I  went  from  door  to  door, 
Begging  a  little  love  from  each  one's  store, 

But  they  gave  only  cruel  hate  and  spurning. 


27 


And  thus  in  quest  of  love  I  wandered  ever, 

Seeking  for  love,  and  finding  love,  ah  never ! 

Then  homeward  turned,  spent  with  the  vain  endeavor. 

And  thou  didst  come  with  hasty  step  to  meet  me, 
And  what  in  thine  o'erbrimming  eyes  did  greet  me — 
That  was  the  love  whose  quest  so  long  did  cheat  me  ! 


TO 


T 


(HEINE.) 

HE  yellow  foliage  trembles 

And  the  leaves  fall  to  their  doom. 


Ah  !  all  that  is  dear  and  lovely 
Shrivels  and  seeks  the  tomb. 


A  saddened  sunshine  glimmers 

Round  the  tops  of  the  fading  grove, 

Like  the  farewell  kiss  of  summer, 
Departing  with  life  and  love. 

And  the  tears  spring  forth  unbidden 
From  the  depths  of  my  aching  heart, 

As  the  scene  recalls  too  nearly 
The  hour  that  saw  us  part. 


28 


When  I  was  forced  to  leave  thee, 
Though  I  knew  that  death  was  nigh, 

And  I  was  the  parting  summer, 
And  thou  wast  the  leaves  that  die. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  TO  REVLAAR. 

(HEINE.) 


THE  mother  stood  at  the  window, 
The  youth  lay  on  his  bed. 
"Come  look  at  the  procession, 
Come,  Wilhelm  dear,"  she  said, 

"  I  am  so  sick,  O  mother, 

I  can  neither  hear  nor  see. 
I  think  of  the  dead  Gretchen, 

And  my  heart  aches  wofully." 

"  Rise,  and  we  '11  go  to  Revlaar, 

With  book  and  rosary. 
God's  Mother  there  will  surely 

Cure  thy  sick  heart  for  thee." 


29 

Now  swells  the  chanting  solemn, 
The  Church's  banners  shine, 

As  on  goes  the  procession, 

Through  Collen  on  the  Rhine. 

As  the  crowd  sweeps  on,  the  mother 

Leads  her  son  tenderly, 
And  both  join  in  the  chorus — 

"Sweet  Mary,  praise  to  Thee  !" 


II. 


The  Mother  of  God  at  Revlaar 
Wears  to-day  her  richest  gear. 

She  has  much  to  do,  for  gather 
Sick  folk  from  far  and  near. 

And  these  poor  sick  ones  bring  her, 

As  offerings  to  suit, 
Limbs  made  of  wax  so  neatly — 

Full  many  a  hand  and  foot. 

And  whoso  a  wax  hand  offers, 
She  frees  his  hand  of  pain ; 

And  whoso  a  wax  foot  offers, 
His  foot  is  made  whole  again 


30 


And  many  who  went  on  crutches 
On  the  rope  can  dance  a  round ; 

And  many  can  play  on  the  viol 
Who  had  not  a  finger  sound. 

The  mother  has  taken  a  candle 
And  a  waxen  heart  has  made — 

"Take  this  to  God's  sweet  Mother, 
She  will  heal  thy  grief,"  she  said. 

The  son  takes  the  wax  heart,  sighing, 
To  the  shrine  he  sighing  goes ; 

The  tears  from  his  eyes  are  flowing, 
As  the  prayer  from  his  sick  heart  flows. 

"Thou  Blessed  of  all  the  Blessed, 
Thou  Queen  upon  Heaven's  throne, 

Thou  God's  own  purest  Virgin, 
To  Thee  be  my  sorrows  known  ! 

"  I  dwell  alone  with  my  mother, 

At  Collen  on  the  Rhine, 
Collen  where  there  is  many 

A  church  and  chapel  and  shrine. 


3i 


"And  near  to  us  dwelt  Gretchen, 
Who  now  lies  'neath  the  ground — 

Mary,  I  bring  Thee  a  wax  heart, 
Heal  thou  my  heart's  deep  wound  ! 

"  Heal  thou  my  heart  that 's  broken, 

And  I  will  most  fervently 
Sing  every  night  and  morning, 

Sweet  Mary,  praise  to  Thee  !" 

III. 

The  sick  son  and  his  mother 

In  a  room  together  slept. 
The  Mother  of  God  came  thither, 

And  silently  in  she  stepped. 

The  sick  youth  she  bent  over, 
And  on  his  heart  so  seared 

She  laid  her  hand,  and  softly 
She  smiled  and  disappeared. 

In  her  sleep  all  this  the  mother 
Saw — and  yet  more  she  marked. 

From  her  slumber  she  awakened, 
For  the  dogs  so  loudly  barked. 


32 


There  lay,  stretched  out  before  her, 
Her  son,  all  stark  and  dead, 

While  o'er  his  wan,  shrunk  features, 
The  dawn  its  radiance  shed. 

Her  hands  she  gently  folded — 
Benumbed  with  grief  was  she, 

Yet  her  low  voice  rose  devoutly — 
"  Sweet  Mary,  praise  to  Thee  !" 


I 


LORELEI. 

(HEINE.) 

CANNOT  tell  what  means  it 
That  I  so  sad  should  be. 

'Tis  but  an  old-time  story 
That  haunts  my  memory. 


Cool  is  the  air  in  the  twilight, 
As  the  Rhine  steals  on  its  way; 

O'er  the  crest  of  the  distant  mountain 
Glimmers  the  parting  day. 


33 


And  aloft  there  sits  a  maiden, 

A  maiden  wondrous  fair; 
Glistens  her  golden  kirtle, 

As  she  combs  her  golden  hair. 

With  a  golden  comb  she  combs  it, 
While  in  witching  tone  she  sings, 

A  lay  in  whose  sweet  cadence 
A  strange  weird  music  rings. 

With  wild  desire  it  masters 
The  youth  in  his  little  skiff; 

His  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  maiden, 
He  heeds  not  the  hidden  reef. 

I  believe  that  the  end  of  the  story 
Is  the  sinking  of  skiff  and  youth, 

And  that  mischief  with  her  singing 
Hath  the  Lorelei  wrought  in  sooth ! 


A 


34 
THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 

(UHLAND.) 

PALACE  vast  and  lofty  there  stood  in  days  of  yore, 

With  towers  that  proudly  glistened,  far  to  the  distant 
shore ; 

Around  it  fragrant  gardens  lay  rich  with  endless 
flowers, 

And  fountains  whose  bright  waters  wove  fairy  rain- 
bow showers. 


There  dwells  a  haughty  monarch,  whom  no  foes  dare  assail, 
There  on  his  throne  he  sitteth,  so  dark  and  yet  so  pale: 
And  what  he  thinks  is  terror,  and  what  he  looks  is  scath, 
And  what  he  speaks  is  torture,  and  what  he  writes  is  death. 

Now  hither  come  two  minstrels,  in  sooth  a  noble  pair, 
The  one  with  golden  ringlets,  the  other  with  snowy  hair : 
Bearing  his  harp,  the  elder  a  gallant  palfrey  rides, 
With  lightsome  step  beside  him  his  blooming  comrade  strides. 

"Prepare  thyself,  my  son,"  thus  the  elder  minstrel  says, 
"With  fullest  voice  to  render  our  deepest,  loftiest  lays. 
Gather  all  strength  that  may  from  all  human  passions  spring, 
Our  song  to-day  must  soften  the  fierce  heart  of  the  king  !" 


35 


Now  stand  the  noble  minstrels  in  a  hall  of  royal  sheen, 
Upon  the  throne  are  sitting  the  king  and  his  fair  queen — 
He  fearful  in  his  splendor  as  the  blood  red  Northern  light, 
She  soft  and  mild  and  tender  as  a  moonbeam  through  the 
night. 

Then  the  old  man  sweeps  the  harp-strings  with  a  skill  that 

hath  no  peer, 
So  that  richer,  ever  richer,  the  sound  swells  on  the  ear: 
While  at  every  pause  the  youth's  voice  uprises  clear  and  free, 
As  it  were  a  spirit  choir  in  heavenly  melody. 

They  sing  of  love  and  springtime,  of  the  ancient  golden  days, 
Of  freedom  and  of  manhood,  and  of  God's  mysterious  ways, 
Of  all  the  earthly  longings  by  which  the  heart  is  riven, 
Of  all  the  holy  raptures  which  uplift  the  soul  to  heaven. 

The  circling  crowd  of  courtiers  their  mockeries  forbear, 

The  king's  most  grizzled  warriors  bow  humbly  down  in 
prayer, 

The  queen,  with  heart  'twixt  sadness  and  struggling  joy  op- 
pressed, 

Hath  thrown  unto  the  minstrels  the  rose  that  decked  her 
breast. 

"Ye  have  seduced  my  people,  my  wife  would  ye  mislead?" 
Thus  shrieks  the  king,  all  trembling  with  wrath  from  foot  to 
head. 


36 


His  sword,  like  bolt  of  lightning,  at  the  youth's  breast  he 

throws, 
Whence  in  place  of  golden  music,  the  richest  life-blood  flows. 

Like  storm-tossed  leaves  the  courtiers  scatter  in  wild  alarm, 
While  the  youth  gasps  out  his  spirit  on  his  aged  master's  arm, 
Who  wraps  him  in  his  mantle  and  sets  him  on  his  horse, 
And,  with  his  weary  burden,  from  the  castle  takes  his  course. 

Yet  before  the  lofty  entrance  he  tarries  for  a  space, 
And  upon  a  marble  column,  which  arose  in  lofty  grace, 
His  much  loved  harp  he  shivers,  of  all  harps  the  most  rare, 
As  his  voice  through  hall  and  gardens  rings  like  a  trumpet 
blare. 

"Woe  to  thee,  thou  proud  castle!     No  gladsome  song  or 

word, 
Through  all  thy  pillared  chambers,  shall  e'er  again  be  heard  ! 
No  !  naught  but  sighs  and  groaning,  and  the  craven  step  of 

slaves, 
Till  his  torch  o'er  thy  dark  ruin  the  avenging  spirit  waves  ! 

"Woe  to  ye,  fragrant  gardens,  that  smile  in  May's  sweet 

light ! 
Look  on  these  disfigured  features  of  him  that  was  as  bright, 
That  looking  ye  may  wither,  your  fountains  all  be  dry, 
And  ye  may  in  future  ages  a  stony  desert  lie  ! 


37 


"And  woe  to  thee,  fell   murderer!      Thou  curse  of   min 

strelsy ! 
All  vain  thy  frantic  strivings  for  bloody  honors  be! 
Let  thy  name  in  darkness  buried  be  blind  Oblivion's  share, 
As  the  groan  of  one  that  dieth  is  lost  in  empty  air  !" 

High  heaven  has  heard  and  answered  the  aged  minstrel's  cry. 
Those  stately  walls  have  fallen,  those  halls  in  ruins  lie. 
Yet  to  show  their  ancient  splendor,  one  sculptured  pillar  tall 
Stands,  riven  through  the  centre,  and  tottering  to  its  fall. 

And  in  place  of  fragrant  gardens,  a  waste  of  desert  land, 
Where  no  tree  invites  with  shelter,  and  no  spring  can  pierce 

the  sand. 
That  monarch's  name  no  sagas,  his  deeds  no  lays  rehearse — 
All  buried  and  forgotten  !     Such  is  the  minstrel's  curse  ! 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

(UHLAND.) 


H 


AST  seen  the  lofty  castle, 
The  castle  by  the  sea? 
Golden  and  rosy  o'er  it, 
The  smiling  cloudlets  be. 


38 

The  cliff  it  might  bend  over 
To  the  clear  flood  below, 

Or  seek  the  clouds  that  hover 
In  evening's  tender  glow. 

"Well  have  I  marked  the  castle, 

The  castle  by  the  sea, 
With  the  pale  moonbeams  o'er  it, 

While  mists  around  it  flee." 

The  wind  and  wave's  wild  music, 
Joyous  was  it  and  free? 

Echoed  those  halls  so  lofty 
With  song  and  revelry? 

"  In  deep  and  solemn  silence 
Were  winds  and  wavelets  all, 

Heard  I  a  dirge  of  sorrow, 
With  weeping,  from  the  hall." 

Sawest  thou  upon  the  terrace 
Walk  forth  the  king  and  queen, 

The  wave  of  the  crimson  mantle, 
The  coronet's  golden  sheen? 


And  led  they  not  with  rapture, 
A  blooming  maiden  there, 

As  gladsome  as  a  sunbeam, 
With  glittering,  golden  hair? 

"  Well  did  I  mark  the  parents, 
No  crown  had  they,  I  wot, 

But  clad  in  sable  garments — 
The  maiden  saw  I  not !" 


H 


HONOR  TO  WOMAN. 

(SCHILLER.) 

ONOR  to  woman  !     On  life's  earthly  river 
Heavenly  roses  she  flingeth  for  ever, 

Love's  blessed  chaplet  with  rapture  she  forms. 
Modestly  shrinking,  her  loveliness  veiling, 
Vestal-like  feeds  she  the  fire  unfailing 

Which  to  each  noble  aim  man's  spirit  warms. 

Man's  unruly  strength  forever 

Strays  within  the  bounds  of  wrong. 

Reckless  wanders  his  endeavor 
Passion's  wayward  path  along. 


40 

Always  future  hopes  pursuing, 

Never  is  his  heart  at  rest. 
Each  dream-image  fiercely  wooing, 

To  the  stars  he  'd  urge  the  quest. 

Woman,  entreating,  bewitching,  enchanting, 
Homeward  decoying  her  fugitive  panting, 

Bids  him  to  live  in  the  life  of  the  hour. 
Daughter  unspoiled  of  kind,  motherly  Nature, 
Quietly  seeking  to  bless  every  creature, 

Rests  she  forever  in  Nature's  sweet  bower. 

Man,  with  eager,  thoughtless  striving 

Ever  seeks  to  force  his  way. 
Friend  and  foe  before  him  driving, 

Asks  not  rest,  nor  brooks  delay. 
Making  now,  and  now  unmaking, 

Sport  of  every  fresh  desire, 
Which,  like  Hydra-heads  are  taking 

New  forms  as  the  old  expire. 

Woman,  untouched  by  these  passions  consuming, 
Gathers  the  flowers  that  around  her  are  blooming, 

Gathers  and  guards  them  from  tempest  and  wrong. 
Freer  than  man,  in  the  limits  she  prizes, 
Richer  than  he  in  the  lore  he  despises, 

And  in  the  infinite  circle  of  song. 


41 


Man's  heart,  proud  and  self-sufficing, 

Knows  not  the  divine  delight 
Hearts  can  feel  in  sacrificing 

Each  to  each,  in  love's  sweet  plight. 
Soul  which  shares  another's  feeling 

Knows  not  he,  whom  tears  ne'er  blest. 
Life's  stern  strife  is  ever  steeling 

Harder  still  his  hardened  breast. 

E'en  as  the  wind-harp's  sweet  cadences  waken, 
Faint  though  the  Zephyr  by  which  it  be  shaken, 

So  woman's  kindliness  ever  appears. 
Tenderly  moved  by  all  suffering  and  sorrow, 
Swells  the  fair  bosom,  the  loving  eyes  borrow 

Heaven's  own  pearls  in  compassionate  tears. 

Man,  in  his  dominion,  only 

Knows  the  insolent  law  of  might. 
Cultured  Persia  bendeth  pronely 

'Neath  the  Scythian's  sabre  bright. 
Passions  wild  and  ever  wilder 

Furious  with  each  other  vie, 
And  fell  Eris  rules,  whence  milder 

Charis  hath  been  forced  to  fly. 

Woman,  with  winning  and  gentle  persuasion, 
Guards  her  love-kingdom  from  every  invasion, 


42 


Lulling  all  strife  in  the  slumber  of  peace, 
Luring  the  forces  oppugnant  together, 
Binding  them  fast  in  her  magical  tether, 

Teaching  the  discord  primeval  to  cease  ! 


THE  ERL-KING'S  DAUGHTER. 

(herder.) 

SIR  Olaf  was  riding  far  and  wide 
To  bid  his  friends  to  his  wedding  tide. 

He  met  the  elves  in  their  woodland  play, 
And  the  Erl-King's  daughter  barred  the  way. 

"Welcome,  Sir  Olaf!  why  wouldst  thou  flee? 
Come  take  thy  place  in  the  dance  with  me  !" 

"  I  may  not  dance,  I  may  not  stay, 
To-morrow  it  is  my  bridal  day." 

"Listen,  Sir  Olaf,  come  dance  with  me, 
And  two  golden  spurs  will  I  give  to  thee, 

(:  With  a  garment  of  silk  so  pure  and  white, 

Which  my  mother  bleached  in  the  full  moon's  light !: 


43 


"  I  may  not  dance,  I  may  not  stay, 
To-morrow  it  is  my  bridal  day." 

"  Listen,  Sir  Olaf,  come  dance  with  me, 
And  a  pile  of  gold  will  I  give  to  thee." 

"  Thy  pile  of  gold  I  would  gladly  share, 
But  to  dance  I  neither  will  nor  dare." 

"An  thou  wilt  not,  Sir  Olaf,  dance  with  me, 
Sickness  and  plague  shall  follow  thee  !" 

With  that  she  smote  him  upon  the  heart, 
Never  had  felt  he  such  deadly  smart. 

On  his  horse  the  pallid  youth  she  threw  — 
"  Now  get  thee  back  to  thy  maiden  true  !" 

And  when  at  last  he  reached  his  home, 
His  mother  trembled  to  see  him  come. 

"  My  son,  my  son,  what  doth  thee  ail, 
That  thy  cheek  should  be  so  wan  and  pale?'1 

"  Full  well  it  may  be  pale  and  wan, 

Since  I  to  the  Erl  King's  land  have  gone." 

"  My  son,  my  son,  my  joy  and  pride, 
What  shall  I  say  to  thy  coming  bride?" 


44 


"  Tell  her  I  've  gone  to  the  wood  near  by 
My  horse  and  hound  for  a  space  to  try." 

Next  morn,  before  one  could  fairly  see, 
There  came  the  bride  and  her  company. 

They  drank  of  the  mead  and  the  wine  so  red- 
"  Where  is  Sir  Olaf,  my  groom?"  she  said. 

"Sir  Olaf  has  gone  to  the  wood  near  by, 
His  horse  and  hound  for  a  space  to  try." 

The  bride  lifted  up  the  mantle  red — 
There  lay  Sir  Olaf,  and  he  was  dead  ! 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THE  DRAGON. 


T 


(SCHILLER.) 
I. 

HROUGH  the  long  street  why  pours  the  crowd? 
Rushing  in  haste  with  clamor  loud  ? 


Is  Rhodes  laid  waste  with  fire,  that  here 
Like  storm-clouds  press  her  people  near? 

I  mark,  high  o'er  the  surging  mass, 

A  knight  on  mettled  charger  pass, 


45 


But  what  is  that  strange  form  I  see 
Dragged  after  him  with  frantic  glee  ? 
It  seems  a  dragon  in  its  shape, 

With  cruel  wide-distended  jaw; 
On  it,  by  turns,  the  people  gape, 

And  on  the  knight,  with  growing  awe. 

II. 

And  now  a  thousand  voices  rise — 

"  Come,  see  the  dragon,  there  it  lies, 

That  slew  our  flocks  and  shepherds  !     There, 

Too,  is  the  knight  that  slew  the  slayer  ! 

Before  him,  many  a  gallant  knight 

Went  forth  to  dare  the  unequal  fight — 

Went  forth,  but  to  return  no  more  : 

Then  honors  on  the  hero  pour  !" 

Thus  onward  surged  the  crowd  along, 

Straight  to  the  cloister,  where,  in  haste 
Assembled,  sate  the  knightly  throng 

Whom  St.  John's  pious  Order  graced. 

III. 

Before  the  noble  Master's  seat 
The  modest  youth  pays  homage  meet. 
The  crowds  pour  after  him,  until 
The  stairways  ample  bounds  they  fill. 


46 


The  youth  begins :   "I  have  but  done 
The  duty  which  no  knight  may  shun. 
The  dragon  which  laid  waste  the  land 
Lies  harmless,  slaughtered  by  this  hand. 
The  wayfarer  no  more  need  fear, 

The  hind  may  lead  his  flocks  in  peace, 
The  pilgrim  seek  the  pathway  sheer 

Up  to  our  Lady's  House  of  Grace." 

IV. 

Sternly  the  Master  bends  his  brow : 

"A  hero's  deed  is  thine,  I  trow. 

Valor  is  what  becomes  a  knight, 

And  thine  is  proved  in  desperate  fight. 

But  tell  me  the  first  duty  laid 

Upon  the  knight,  with  Cross  arrayed, 

And  pledged  to  fight  for  Christ  our  Lord?' 

Then  pale  with  fear  grew  all  who  heard. 

But  he  with  noble  calmness  spake, 

Bending  in  low  obeisance  there, 
"  Obedience,  first  of  all,  doth  make 

Us  worthy  of  the  Cross  we  bear." 

V. 

"This  duty,  then,"  the  Prince  replied, 
"  Thy  headstrong  will  hath  set  aside. 


47 


The  combat  which  the  law  forbade 
With  wanton  heart  hast  thou  essayed." 
Calmly  the  youth  replied  :   "  Withhold 
Thy  judgment  till  my  tale  is  told. 
The  law's  design  and  true  intent 
Most  fully  to  obey  I  meant. 
Not  recklessly  went  I  to  dare 

With  that  dread  beast  a  combat  vain  : 
I  sought,  through  art  and  prudence  rare, 

The  hoped-for  victory  to  gain. 


VI. 


"Five  dauntless  brethren  of  the  Cross, 
Our  Order's  pride,  Religion's  loss, 
Fell,  ere  thou  didst  forbid  each  knight 
Again  to  tempt  the  hopeless  fight. 
Yet  still  my  heart  was  torn  within 
By  fierce  desires  that  fight  to  win. 
The  quiet  nights  brought  no  repose, 
I  from  dream-combats  panting  rose, 
Only  with  each  new  dawn  to  learn 

Of  added  suffering,  further  woe, 
And  ever  wilder  longings  burn, 

Till  I  resolve  to  dare  the  foe. 


48 


VII. 

"And  with  myself  I  argued  then  : 
What  chiefly  honors  youths  and  men  ? 
What  were  the  deeds  of  heroes  bold, 
Whose  names  were  sung  by  bards  of  old, 
Whom  the  blind  Paynim  raised  on  high 
As  gods  to  dwell  beyond  the  sky? 
'Twas  that  the  groaning  earth  they  freed 
From  monsters  by  each  valorous  deed. 
That  the  poor  victims  might  be  spared, 

They  grappled  with  Minotaur  dread, 
The  Lion's  rage  in  fight  they  dared, 

And  lavishly  their  blood  they  shed. 

VIII. 

"  Is  it  the  Saracen  abhorred 
Alone  who  fits  the  Christian's  sword  ? 
Is  misbelief  his  only  foe  ? 
He  is  sent  to  save  the  world  from  woe  ! 
His  strong  arm  should  deliverance  bring 
From  every  care  and  suffering. 
But  wisdom  should  his  courage  guide 
And  strength  with  prudence  be  allied. 
Thus  oft  I  reasoned  as  I  went, 
The  monster's  lair  to  view  alone, 


49 


And  when  to  me  the  thought  was  sent, 
Joyous  I  cried  :  The  task  is  done  ! 

IX. 

"  From  thee  permission  craved  I  then 

To  seek  my  native  land  again. 

Freely  thou  yieldedst  to  my  prayer, 

And  prosperous  gales  soon  brought  me  there. 

Scarce  did  I  reach  the  well-known  strand 

When,  through  an  artist's  cunning  hand, 

That  dragon-shape  I  framed  anew, 

To  every  well-marked  feature  true. 

Short  were  the  legs  which  bore  the  mass, 

Upreared,  of  that  huge  body's  weight; 
The  back,  all  round,  with  scales  of  brass 

Was  clothed,  which  naught  might  penetrate. 

X. 

"  High  rose  the  neck  in  lofty  state, 
And,  ghastly  as  Hell's  open  gate, 
As  though  to  fill  its  ravenous  maw, 
Wide  stretched  its  all-devouring  jaw. 
From  the  black  gorge,  above,  beneath, 
Shone  grimly  forth  sharp  rows  of  teeth ; 


50 


A  sword's  point  seems  the  tongue,  while  flies 

Sharp  lightning  from  its  beady  eyes. 

The  monstrous  length  of  back,  drawn  out, 

Becomes  a  snake,  whose  winding  course, 
In  volumed  folds  is  cast  about, 

As  though  to  envelop  man  and  horse. 

XL 

"  Thus  every  feature  I  portray, 
And  color  it  a  grewsome  gray. 
Half  snake  it  seems,  half  dragon  fell, 
Spawned  in  some  poisonous  pool  of  Hell. 
When  thus  its  ghastly  shape  was  wrought 
A  pair  of  bloodhounds  fierce  I  sought, 
Nimble  and  strong,  and  trained  were  they 
The  wild  aurochs  to  make  their  prey. 
These  I  incite  to  furious  rage, 

And  set  them  on  their  dragon  foe, 
Teaching  them  how  the  fight  to  wage, 

Till  they  my  voice  obedient  know. 

XII. 

"And  where  the  belly's  tenderer  skin 
Allows  sharp  teeth  to  pierce  within, 
I  urge  them  to  attack  it  there, 
With  merciless  fang  to  rend  and  tear, 


5i 


While  I  bestride  my  Arab  steed, 
Sprung  from  the  noblest,  purest  breed, 
With  spear  in  hand  and  spur  on  heel, 
Kindling  its  rage  with  voice  and  steel, 
Madly  I  urge  its  headlong  course 

Full  at  the  dragon's  image  fierce, 
And  cast  my  spear  with  utmost  force, 

As  though  the  monster  to  transpierce. 

XIII. 

<{And  though  my  charger  wildly  rears, 
And  champs,  and  foams  with  sudden  fears, 
And  though  my  hounds  with  terror  moan, 
I  rest  not  till  they  all  have  grown 
Blunted  with  practice,  day  by  day, 
While  thrice  the  moon  renews  her  ray. 
And  when  their  training  thus  is  o'er, 
With  them  I  seek  our  Island  shore. 
'Tis  the  third  day  since  here  I  came  : 

My  eager  limbs  could  know  no  rest, 
Till  the  great  deed  had  quenched  the  flame 

That  burned  resistless  in  my  breast. 

XIV. 
"  For  the  fresh  griefs  which  filled  the  land 
To  hotter  zeal  my  purpose  fanned. 


52 


Some  luckless  hinds  had  lost  their  way 

And  mangled  by  the  monster  lay. 

If  in  my  heart  a  doubt  could  lurk, 

'Twas  past — I  hastened  to  my  work. 

Briefly  their  duty  I  recount 

To  my  brave  squires  :  my  horse  I  mount, 

And  with  my  noble  leash  of  dogs, 

By  hidden  paths,  which  none  may  know. 
Through  silent  marsh  and  trackless  bogs, 

I  fearless  seek  the  hideous  foe. 


XV. 


"The  chapel,  Lord,  well  knowest  thou, 
Hanging  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
O'erlooking  all  the  Island  round, 
Which  did  our  daring  Master  found. 
Though  mean  it  looks,  and  small  and  poor, 
It  shrines  the  source  of  many  a  cure, 
The  Mother  with  the  Infant  holy, 
And  the  Three  Kings  adoring  lowly. 
Thrice  thirty  rock-hewn  steps  there  lead 

The  panting  pilgrim  to  the  height, 
When  wasted  strength  and  dizzying  head, 

Find  fresh  life  in  the  Saviour's  sight. 


53 


XVI. 


"  Deep  in  the  rock,  thus  nobly  crowned, 
A  noisome  yawning  cave  is  found, 
Dank  with  the  marsh's  neighboring  dews, 
Where  heaven's  bright  beams  their  light  refuse. 
'Twas  here  the  hideous  monster  lay, 
Waiting  for  victims,  night  and  day; 
Like  Hell-drake  keeping  watch  and  ward, 
The  way  to  God's  own  house  he  barred  : 
For  if,  upon  that  dangerous  path, 

The  pious  pilgrim  careless  went, 
The  monster  rushed  forth  in  his  wrath, 

And  limb  from  limb  the  victim  rent. 

XVII. 

"  To  fit  me  for  the  doubtful  fray, 
Up  the  steep  rock  I  bend  my  way, 
To  the  Christ-child  I  kneel  within 
And  cleanse  my  soul  from  taint  of  sin. 
When  I  this  holy  state  have  won, 
I  draw  my  burnished  armor  on, 
With  spear  in  hand  I  quick  descend, 
Eager  the  bitter  strife  to  end. 
To  a  safe  place  my  squires  I  bring, 
Briefly  my  last  commands  are  given, 


54 

Upon  my  steed  I  lightly  spring, 

While  I  commend  my  soul  to  Heaven. 

XVIII. 

"  Scarcely  the  level  plain  I  near, 
Before  my  dogs  give  challenge  clear. 
With  terror  struck,  my  panting  steed 
Threatens  to  fail  me  in  my  need, 
For,  coil  on  coil,  and  close  at  hand 
Lies  the  devourer  of  the  land, 
Basking  beneath  the  blazing  sun. 
The  nimble  hounds  towards  him  run. 
But  when  he  parts  his  ghastly  jaw, 

And  as  his  poisonous  breath  flies  by, 
They  turn  like  arrows,  filled  with  awe, 

And  whimpering  as  the  jackals  cry. 

XIX. 

"  Their  courage  quick  I  rouse  again  j 
Upon  the  foe  they  rush  amain, 
While  at  the  monster's  side  is  thrown 
The  spear  with  all  the  force  I  own. 
But  worthless  as  a  reed  it  fails, 
Rebounding  from  those  steely  scales; 


55 


And  ere  a  second  cast  is  had, 

My  horse  rears  up,  with  terror  mad, 

That  basilisk-eye  he  cannot  face, 

Nor  yet  the  monster's  venom  breath ; 
Beyond  control,  he  backs  apace, 

And  all  to  me  seems  lost  save  death. 

XX. 

"Quick  to  the  earth  I  leap,  and  there 
In  haste  I  lay  my  sword-edge  bare, 
But  all  my  blows  are  spent  in  vain 
That  flinty  mail  to  cleave  in  twain. 
Raging  it  sweeps  its  tail  around, 
And  hurls  me  helpless  to  the  ground. 
I  see  its  grim  throat  yawning  fierce, 
Already  seem  its  fangs  to  pierce — 
But,  wild  with  rage,  my  noble  hounds 

Its  belly  rend  with  teeth  and  claws ; 
Loudly  its  bellowing  resounds, 

As  agony  forces  it  to  pause. 

XXI. 

"While  from  their  grasp  it  vainly  tries 

To  wrench  itself,  I  swiftly  rise, 

I  spy  its  vulnerable  part, 

And  plunge  my  weapon  in  its  heart; 


56 


Deep  to  the  very  hilt  I  bore — 
Black-rushing  spouts  the  monster's  gore. 
It  falls,  and  with  its  mighty  girth, 
It  bears  me  with  it  to  the  earth. 
Bereft  of  sense,  long  time  I  lie, 

And  when,  at  length,  I  rouse  again, 
My  faithful  squires  are  standing  by 

The  dragon  in  its  life-blood  slain." 

XXII. 

When  ceased  the  knight,  with  briefest  pause, 
Burst  forth  the  long  restrained  applause, 
In  that  vast  crowd,  from  every  breast, 
And  echoing  tenfold  from  the  crest 
Of  the  high  vault,  the  mighty  sound 
Rolls  thundering  forth,  below,  around. 
Even  the  Order's  sons  demand 
A  crown  for  him  who  freed  the  land. 
Wildly  the  grateful  people  now 

In  triumph  forth  the  knight  would  bear: 
But  see,  the  Master  knits  his  brow, 

And  sternly  orders  silence  there  ! 

XXIII. 

And  speaks:    "The  dragon  which  this  land 
Laid  waste,  has  fall'n  'neath  thy  brave  hand. 


57 


A  god  the  people  think  thee  now : 

To  the  Order  but  a  foe  art  thou. 

A  reptile  in  thy  heart  hath  lain 

As  evil  as  the  one  thou  'st  slain. 

The  snake  which  tempts  thy  soul  astray, 

That  leads  us  on  destruction's  way, 

'Tis  the  rebellious  spirit  and  high 

That  thinks  obedience  little  worth, 
Sunders  the  law's  most  holy  tie, 

And  brings  perdition  upon  earth. 

XXIV. 

"  In  valor  shares  the  Paynim  race  : 
Obedience  is  the  Christian's  grace. 
For  where  our  Saviour  in  his  might, 
Walked  in  the  meekest,  humblest  plight, 
Our  sires,  within  that  holy  border, 
Decreed  the  covenant  of  this  Order — 
The  duty  hardest  to  fulfil, 
The  effacement  of  our  proper  will. 
But  thee  has  idle  glory  stirred  : 

Therefore  betake  thee  from  my  sight. 
Who  beareth  not  the  yoke  o'  the  Lord 

Shall  never  with  His  cross  be  dight !" 


58 


XXV. 

Then,  through  that  vaulted  chamber,  loud 
Storms  forth  the  passion  of  the  crowd  : 
For  pardon  all  the  brethren  plead  ; 
But  silently,  with  bended  head, 
The  youth  throws  off  his  mantle,  and 
Kisses  the  Master's  rigid  hand. 
Then  goes — watched  by  the  Master's  eye, 
Who  calls  him  back  with  loving  cry — 
"  My  son,  embrace  me  ;   thou  hast  fought 

And  won  the  nobler  fight.     To  thee 
I  give  this  cross,  the  guerdon  bought 

By  self-controlled  humility!" 


ULRICH  VON  HUTTEN'S  COMPLAINT. 

(From  his  refuge  at  Ufnau,  in  the  Lake  of  Zurich,  where  he  soon  after 
died,  in  1523.) 


N 


OT  heedless  did  I  dare  it, 

No  weak  regret  I  feel ; 
The  gain,  1  may  not  share  it, 

Yet  none  can  doubt  my  zeal. 
For  all  must  own,  not  mine  alone — 

The  common  good  I  favored, 


59 

Though  now  as  the  arch-enemy 
Of  priests  am  I  beslavered. 

Well,  let  them  deal  in  slander, 

And  chatter  as  they  will, 
If  I  had  but  less  candor, 

They  had  been  gracious  still. 
For  saying  my  say,  I  'm  chased  away, 

Of  which  complain  I  fairly. 
No  farther,  though,  than  here  I  '11  go, 

To  return,  mayhap,  full  early. 

I  will  not  sue  for  mercy, 

Since  I  no  wrong  have  done : 
The  law's  time-honored  course  I 

Had  willingly  let  run. 
But  haste  and  spite  and  lawless  might 

Refused  me  e'en  a  hearing. 
And  yet  God's  will  must  I  fulfil, 

These  heavy  crosses  bearing. 

How  oft  hath  such  example 
Been  witnessed  in  the  past — 

The  strong,  who  sought  to  trample, 
Have  lost  the  game  at  last  ! 


6o 


A  mighty  flame  from  a  spark  oft  came, 

So  I  revenge  may  take  still. 
The  start  is  made,  and  with  my  aid, 

The  cause  must  go  or  break  still. 

At  least  can  I  most  truly 

Before  the  world  assert 
That  ne'er  those  tongues  unruly 

My  honor  dared  to  hurt. 
Nor  can  they  say  that  virtue's  way 

I  ever  have  forsaken, 
Nor  that  with  aught  but  righteous  thought 

This  cause  have  undertaken. 

Will  not  our  pious  nation 

Resolve  at  length  to  cure, 
As  I  wished,  in  thorough  fashion, 

The  wrongs  it  must  endure? 
Though  sore  I  grieve,  I  take  my  leave — 

The  cards  I  '11  shuffle  better. 
All  fearless  I  have  cast  the  die — 

If  Fate  shall  frown,  why  let  her ! 

What  though  the  courtiers'  cunning 

May  keep  me  anxious  yet, 
A  heart,  all  evil  shunning, 

Will  hold  its  purpose  set. 


6i 


Full  many  I  know  to  death  who  '11  go 
Our  high  designs  to  cherish — 

Up  horse  and  foot !     Come  bravely  to  't 
And  let  not  Hutten  perish  ! 


AENNCHEN  VON  THARAU. 

(SIMON   DACH.) 

ANNIE  of  Tharau,  my  heart's  chiefest  pleasure, 
She  is  my  life  and  my  hope  and  my  treasure  ! 
Annie  of  Tharau  in  turn  doth  bestow 
On  me  her  heart,  in  its  love  and  its  wo. 
Annie  of  Tharau,  my  wealth  and  my  good  ! 
Thou  art  my  soul,  and  my  flesh,  and  my  blood  ! 

Storms  may  beat  on  us  from  every  hand, 
We  are  resolved  by  each  other  to  stand. 
Sickness,  injustice,  misfortune,  and  pain 
Only  shall  bind  our  loves  closer  again  ! 
Annie  of  Tharau,  my  light  and  my  sun, 
Our  lives  shall  encircle  each  other  as  one  ! 


62 


E'en  as  a  palm-tree  uprises  again, 
Bent  though  it  hath  been  by  storm- wind  and  rain, 
So  shall  our  love  but  new  tenderness  borrow 
From  the  assaults  of  life's  trouble  and  sorrow. 
Annie  of  Tharau,  my  wealth  and  my  good  1 
Thou  art  my  soul,  and  my  flesh,  and  my  blood  ! 

If  thou  shouldst  from  me  be  carried  away, 

Lived'st  thou  where  man  scarcely  knows  the  sun's  ray, 

Thee  would  I  follow  through  oceans  and  snows, 

Iron  and  prison,  and  armies  of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharau,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

Our  lives  shall  encircle  each  other  as  one  ! 


DE  CONTEMPTU  MUNDI. 

[There  is  perhaps  no  more  thorough  embodiment  of  the  medieval  monas- 
tic theory  of  life  and  death  than  the  poem  from  which  the  following 
fragments  are  translated.  A  portion  of  it  has  been  attributed  to 
St.  Bernard,  probably  from  its  similarity  to  the  Dies  Ine,  which  is 
likewise  sometimes  ascribed  to  him.] 


A 


H  mortal  life  !  so  false  and  brief, 
Why  cast  seductions  thus  o'er  me? 
Since  thou  must  fall,  as  falls  the  leaf, 
Why  force  me  thus  to  cling  to  thee? 


63 


Ah  mortal  life  that  swiftly  flies, 
More  evil  than  the  tiger's  brood, 

Since  I  so  soon  must  rend  thy  ties, 

Why  lead'st  thou  thus  my  soul  from  good  ? 

Ah  life — nay,  rather  death  thou  art — 
A  thing  for  hate  and  not  for  love, 

Since  evil  only  is  thy  part, 

Why  dost  thou  thus  my  senses  move  ? 

Ah  life,  full-fraught  with  sickly  fears, 
More  fragile  than  the  tenderest  flower, 

Since  thou  art  weighted  thus  with  tears, 
Why  own  I  thy  alluring  power? 

Ah  life,  that  knows  nor  peace  nor  rest, 
In  troubled  thought  and  anxious  heart, 

Wearying  with  endless,  aimless  quest, 
Why  do  I  grieve  that  we  must  part  ? 


Whene'er  on  death's  approach  I  dwell, 
And  all  the  terrors  in  his  train, 

Appalled  I  shrink,  for  who  can  tell 
If  he  may  'scape  Hell's  endless  pain? 


64 


Appalled,  the  dreadful  Day  I  wait, 

The  Day  of  grief  and  voiceless  gloom, 

The  Day  of  wrath  and  pitiless  fate, 

The  Day  that  wreaks  the  sinner's  doom. 

I  shudder  when  I  think  of  Him 

Who  knows  the  heart's  most  secret  thought. 
The  terrible  Judge  who  comes  supreme 

To  avenge  each  sin  by  mortal  wrought. 

For  who  without  dismay  shall  stand 
Before  that  awful  Presence,  where 

The  quenchless  fires  on  either  hand 
The  sinner's  hopeless  fate  prepare? 


How  sweet  for  him  'twill  be,  how  blest, 
Who  hath  the  world's  allurements  spurned  ! 

What  sharp  despair  for  him  whose  breast 
For  worldly  hopes  and  joys  hath  yearned  ! 

Hail,  blessed  ones,  who  weep  and  mourn, 
Who  suffer  for  the  Saviour  here ! 

For  you  the  world's  unrest  and  scorn 
Shall  gain  a  lasting  kingdom  there. 


Where  hate  and  fear  will  be  unknown, 
Whence  sorrow  will  be  banished  far, 

With  want,  and  age's  palsied  moan, 
And  all  that  perfect  bliss  could  mar. 

There  peace  will  fold  her  wings  and  stay, 
There  gladness  will  unsullied  be, 

There  youth  will  never  feel  decay, 
And  health  will  dread  no  enemy. 

'Twere  vain  to  strive  in  words  to  tell 
The  exulting,  boundless  rapture  given 

To  those  who  thus  on  high  shall  dwell 
And  reign  with  angel  hosts  in  heaven. 

O  hearken  to  my  earnest  prayer, 

Great  Judge !  and  call  me  to  Thy  side. 

This  is  my  hope,  my  chiefest  care, 

Let  not  Thy  servant  be  denied  !     Amen  ! 


66 


DIES  IRjE. 


0 


DAY  of  wrath  !     0  day,  foretold 
By  God's  own  chosen  seers  of  old, 
Which  shall  the  world  in  flames  enfold  ! 


What  fear  upon  mankind  shall  fall 

When  the  Great  Judge  shall  come,  and  all 

To  His  strict  judgment-seat  shall  call! 

The  wondrous  trump's  mysterious  tone 
Shall  pierce  the  fields  which  Death  has  sown, 
And  force  all  sinners  to  the  Throne. 

For  Death  astonied  then  shall  be, 
While  Nature  sets  her  creatures  free, 
To  wait  the  Judge's  stern  decree. 

Then  forth  shall  be  the  record  brought, 

Of  every  deed  and  every  thought, 

From  which  the  judgment  shall  be  wrought. 

And  when  the  Judge  his  seat  has  ta'en, 
All  hidden  things  shall  be  made  plain, 
And  naught  shall  unavenged  remain. 


67 


Then  what  defence  can  such  as  I 
Put  forth  ?     On  what  protector  cry, 
When  scarce  the  just  can  hope  descry? 

O  King  of  awful  majesty, 

The  chosen  ones  are  saved  by  Thee  ! 

Then,  Font  of  Mercy,  save  Thou  me ! 

Sweet  Christ!  on  that  day  spurn  me  not ! 
For  me,  I  pray,  remember  what 
Thou  borest  in  Thine  earthly  lot ! 

Me  didst  Thou  seek,  in  care  and  pain ; 
For  me  upon  the  Cross  wast  slain  ; 
Let  not  Thy  sufferings  be  in  vain  ! 

Thou  righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 
Grant,  O  grant  me  absolution, 
Ere  the  day  of  prosecution  ! 

All  self-condemned  I  scarce  can  speak ; 
The  blush  of  shame  o'erspreads  my  cheek 
God  !  grant  the  pardon  that  I  seek ! 

Thou,  who  sad  Mary  hast  forgiven, 
Thou,  who  the  dying  thief  hast  shriven, 
Thou  givest  me  also  hope  of  heaven. 


68 


Worthless  my  prayers,  I  own  with  shame, 
But,  Blest  One,  let  Thy  holy  Name 
Preserve  me  from  the  endless  flame  ! 

Amid  the  sheep,  O  bid  me  stand, 
Far  from  the  goats'  unhallowed  band, 
And  place  me  safe  at  Thy  right  hand  ! 

When  the  accursed  shall  hear  the  knell 
That  dooms  them  to  the  fires  of  Hell, 
Call  me  among  the  blest  to  dwell ! 

With  contrite  heart  I  lowly  bend, 
Before  Thee,  praying  Thee  to  send 
To  all  my  fears  a  blessed  end  ! 

Ah !  tearful  well  may  be  that  day 
When  man  shall  rise  from  earthly  clay, 
To  meet  the  Law's  avenging  rod — 
Then  spare  me !  spare  me,  O  my  God  ! 


69 


DRINKING  SONG. 

[Attributed  to  Walter  de  Mapes,  Archdeacon  of  Oxford  at  the  close  of 
the  twelfth  century.] 


I 


N  a  cosey  tavern  am  I  resolved  to  die, 
Drinking  still,  and  drinking,  forever  as  I  lie, 
That  the  angel  chorus  on  seeing  me  may  cry, 
"God,  take  this  stout  drinker  in  peace  beyond  the  sky! 


Nerved  with  deep  potations,  wit  kindleth  fast  its  fires ; 
Strengthened  with  the  grape-juice,  the  heart  to  heaven  as- 
pires ; 
Strong  draughts  in  the  taverns  my  thirsty  soul  desires 
More  than  the  weak  mixtures  they  give  us  at  the  'Squire's. 

Nature  hath  for  each  one  some  gift  to  serve  him  ever. 
When  I  'm  dry  and  empty,  then  I  can  scribble  never. 
Fasting,  I  '11  be  beaten  by  any  boy  that 's  clever. 
Thirst  I  hate,  and  hunger,  as  Styx's  muddy  river. 

At  his  birth  to  each  man  some  gift  kind  Nature  bore. 
With  the  fairest  wine  I  the  Muses'  aid  implore, 
For  it  is  well  known  that  the  vintner's  sparkling  store 
Brings  a  flood  of  fancies,  and  words  in  mighty  roar. 


;o 

Changeful  are  my  verses,  they  vary  with  my  wine. 
I  make  no  pretension  to  write  well  till  I  dine. 
Poems  made  when  empty  are  stupid,  every  line, 
But,  on  three  good  bumpers,  I  '11  Ovid  far  outshine. 

The  prophetic  power  within  me  all  is  vain 

Till  my  well-filled  stomach  hath  made  my  doublet  strain, 

Then  when    Bacchus   mounteth  and  whirleth   through  my 

brain, 
Phcebus  rusheth  in  me,  and  makes  all  wonders  plain  ! 


EPITAPH. 

(martial.) 

LIGHT  be  the  turf  that  veils  thy  tender  head, 
O  Alcimus!     Alas,  too  early  dead  ! 
Upon  thy  grave  no  ponderous  tomb  shall  be 
Of  perishing  dust  an  empty  mockery; 
But  where  thou  liest  shall  fragrant  flowers  be  laid, 
And  twining  boughs  shall  cast  a  solemn  shade. 
And  oft  my  tears,  like  Heaven's  own  springing  dew, 
In  summer's  heat  shall  make  them  bloom  anew. 
Do  not  these  tributes  of  my  grief  disdain — 
Here,  through  all  time,  thy  memory  shall  remain, 
And  when  the  stern  Fates  shall  my  death  decree, 
In  dust  will  I  be  joined  again  to  thee  ! 


N 


7i 

THE  VOW. 

(tibulixs.) 

O  other  love  shall  e'er  beguile 

My  once  too  wandering  heart  from  thee, 
For  thou  'rt  the  first  whose  winning  smile 
Hath  made  it  feel  what  love  should  be. 


No  other  form  can  charm  my  eyes — 

Ah,  would  that  mine  were  charmed  alone  ! 

That  none  might  crave  my  heart's  own  prize, 
For  thou  wouldst  then  be  all  mine  own  ! 

For  the  envying  gaze  I  do  not  care 
Of  jealous  youths.     Thy  secret  love 

Might  welt  repay  me  to  forbear 

The  fame  that  I  thy  heart  could  move. 

Thus  could  I  live  most  blissfully 

With  thee,  embowered  in  forest  glades, 

Where  foot  of  man  we  ne'er  should  see 
Intruding  on  our  sacred  shades. 

And  thou  shouldst  be  my  balm  in  care, 
In  my  dark  night  the  guiding  star, 

My  world,  my  all — whence  I  with  fear 
Would  view  the  whirl  of  life  afar. 


72 

And  now,  though  heaven  itself  should  send 

To  me  another,  fair  as  day, 
To  her  my  heart  should  never  bend 

From  thee,  whom  it  shall  love  alway. 

I  swear  it  by  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 
Juno,  the  first  of  gods  to  me — 

Fool  that  I  am !  I  now  have  given 
Irrevocably  myself  to  thee  1 

Unthinkingly  I  swore,  alas  ! 

'Twas  fear  that  did  betray  me  so, 
And  now  wilt  thou  scorn  him  who  has 

No  way  to  'scape  from  thee  and  woe. 

I  am  thy  slave  and  must  obey, 

Xor  seek  to  rive  my  cruel  chain — 

Yet  I  to  Venus  oft  will  pray, 

Who  never  hears  my  prayers  in  vain  ! 


73 
TO  ARISTIAS  FUSCUS. 

(HORACE.) 


F 


USCUS,  the  man  whose  life  is  pure, 
Who  shuns  foul  evil's  devious  arts, 
Needs  not  the  javelin  of  the  Moor, 
Nor  poisoned  darts, 


Whether  by  Afric's  burning  shore, 

Or  mid  Caucasian  snows,  or  where 
Hydaspes  flows  o'er  fabled  ore, 
His  way  may  fare. 

For  late  as  'neath  the  woodland  shade, 

Wandering  I  sang  of  Lalage, 
Careless  and  all  unarmed,  there  fled 
A  wolf  from  me  ! 

And  such  a  monster!     Daunias  ne'er 
His  like  in  her  dark  forests  nursed, 
Nor  Mauritania,  savage  lair 
Of  beasts  accursed. 

Then  were  I  borne  to  that  dull  waste 

Which  genial  summer  never  warms, 
By  grateful  verdure  never  graced, 
Mid  clouds  and  storms; 


74 

Or  to  those  lifeless  Southern  isles, 

Too  near  the  sun's  relentless  rays, 
I  'd  still  love  Lalage's  bright  smiles, 
And  winsome  ways. 


TO  TORQUATUS. 

(HORACE.) 


THE  snows  have  fled  ;  the  fields  again  are  blooming  ; 
To  life  the  trees  have  sprung ; 
No  longer  o'er  their  banks  the  brooks  are  spuming, 
And  Earth  once  more  is  young. 
Now  may  the  Nymphs  and  Graces,  in  their  bower, 

Their  naked  dances  weave. 
To  us  the  circling  year,  each  passing  hour, 

Life's  mortal  lesson  give. 
Mild  Zephyrs  melt  the  frost :  Spring  yields  to  Summer, 

And  Summer  dies  when  Fall 
Pours  forth  her  fruitage  ;  then  the  latest  comer, 

Dull  Winter,  endeth  all. 
The  year's  decay,  the  moons  revolving  o'er  us 
Will  soon  make  good  ;  but  we, 


75 


When  we  rejoin  those  who  have  gone  before  us, 

But  dust  and  shades  shall  be  ! 
Who  knows  if  to  his  day  a  single  morrow 

WTill  be  decreed  by  Fate? 
The  wealth  that  thou  hast  heaped,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  heir  will  dissipate. 
When  death,  Torquatus,  comes,  and  Minos  o'er  thee 

His  dread  award  shall  give, 
Not  thy  high  birth,  nor  eloquence  shall  restore  thee, 

Xor  piety  bid  thee  live. 
Hippolytus  from  Styx  e'en  Dian  never 

To  earth  could  bring  again, 
Nor  for  Pirithous  could  Theseus  sever 

Lethe's  unyielding  chain. 


THE  DYING  HADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS 
SOUL. 


T 


HOU  playful  wandering  sprite, 
This  body's  comrade-guest, 
Whither  is  now  thy  flight, 
Naked,  and  cold,  and  white, 
And  never  more  to  jest? 


76 


LINES. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  FRAGMENT  OF  ALC^US. 
Mq&hv  oXKo  tyvtevartf  rtpotspov  8sv8pBOv  d^urt&w. 

LET  nothing  but  the  fruitful  vine 
Be  planted  near  this  house  of  mine ; 
But  it  shall  twine  luxuriant  o'er 
And  ripely  cluster  round  the  door, 
As  if  to  say  "  None  enter  here 
Save  those  to  whom  the  vine  is  dear  !" 

And  so  'twill  be.     No  friend  I  '11  own 
Save  those  who  love  the  vine  alone. 
And  they,  a  chosen  few,  shall  meet 
Beneath  the  vine-tree's  foliage  sweet, 
Whose  clusters,  hanging  high,  shall  beam, 
Reflected  in  the  purple  stream. 

I  've  striven  for  all  that  Earth  can  give, 
For  which  is  man  content  to  live, 
And  I  have  found  that,  once  possessed, 
There  's  naught  that  fills  the  craving  breast. 
From  each  new  joy  the  heart  flies  fleeter, 
And  still  it  asks  for  something  sweeter. 

I  've  basked  an  hour  in  Beauty's  smile, 
And  then  have  scorned  the  plaything's  wile. 


77 


For  love  is  but  an  endless  round 
Of  causeless  sighs  and  bliss  unfound. 
The  myrtle's  frail  and  barren  flower 
Is  fitting  emblem  of  its  power. 

And  I,  for  Fame,  have  pondered  o'er 

The  sage's  legendary  lore. 

I  've  sought  her  with  my  brand  and  shield, 

And  wooed  her  in  the  stricken  field. 

Yon  faded  laurel  wreath  can  tell 

How  she  rewards  her  votaries  well  ! 

No !     I  care  not  for  Beauty's  eyes — 
My  love  within  the  goblet  lies. 
I  care  not  for  the  voice  of  Fame, 
While  I  can  breathe  the  goblet's  flame. 
Then  plant  alone  the  fruitful  vine 
Around  this  humble  home  of  mine! 


72 
THE  SWALLOWS. 

(AGATHIAS   THE   MYRENiEAN.) 

THE  weary  night  I  spend  in  sighs 
Of  hopeless  love,  and  bitter  tears ; 
And  sleep  begins  to  seal  my  eyes 
Just  as  the  rosy  dawn  appears. 
But  as,  in  sweet  forgetfulness, 

My  heart  begins  to  find  relief, 
Ye  call  my  soul  from  dreams  that  bless, 
Ye  clamorous  swallows,  back  to  grief! 

Ah  then  ye  envious  chatterers  cease ! 

It  was  not  I  who  wronged  the  maid — 
I  broke  not  Philomela's  peace — 

By  guiltier  hands  was  she  betrayed. 
For  Itys  do  ye  grieve?     Away! 

Go  seek  the  mountain's  lonely  height, 
And  there  pour  forth  your  mournful  lay 

From  earliest  dawn  to  blackest  night ; 

Or  in  some  desert  wild,  where  none 
Are  near  whom  your  discordant  cries 

Can  rouse.     Perchance  when  ye  are  gone 
Slumber  again  may  press  my  eyes. 


79 


And  even  in  some  rapturous  dream, 

Some  vision  fraught  with  wildering  charms, 

I  may  be  blest,  until  I  deem 
I  rest  within  Rhodanthe's  arms! 


THE  FREEBOOTER. 

(HYBRIAS   THE   CRETAN.) 


HERE  is  my  wealth !      A  falchion  bright, 
A  spear,  a  shield  with  bull-skin  dight, 
Protecting  me  through  many  a  fight, 
While  swords  are  flashing  round! 

Through  these  the  harvest  all  is  mine, 
And  vintage,  red  with  spouting  wine, 
While  slaves,  with  terror  struck,  incline, 
Before  me,  to  the  ground  ! 

But  they  who  wield  no  falchion  bright, 
Nor  spear,  nor  shield  with  bull-skin  dight 
Protecting  them  through  many  a  fight, 
While  swords  are  flashing  round — 

Yea,  all  such  craven  sons  of  fear 
Shall  humbly  bend  to  me,  where'er 
I  go,  and  me  as  Lord  revere — 

Their  Lord  and  King  uncrowned  ! 


8o 


BION'S  THIRD  IDYLL. 


Jr  I  WVAS  a  sweet  dream  !     Cythera  stood  before  me, 
And  in  her  hand  did  she  young  Eros  bring; 
And  thus  she  spoke,  while  bending  gracefully  o'er  me — 
"Shepherd,  teach  him  thy  honeyed  strains  to  sing, 
And  glad  my  soul  J"     With  this  sweet  task  delighted, 

Blindly  I  welcomed  the  deceiver,  Love, 
And  strove  to  teach  him  the  soft  chants  recited 

For  ages  by  the  shepherds  of  the  grove. 
The  legends  old  which  tell  how  Pan  invented 

The  shrilly  pipes,  Athena  her  sweet  flute, 
How  Hermes  with  his  lyre  the  list  augmented, 

And  bright  Apollo  framed  the  melting  lute. 
When  I  had  done,  I  gave  to  him  the  lyre, 

But  he  neglected  all  the  strains  I  taught, 
And  straight  sang  little  songs  of  fierce  desire, 

Relating  deeds  by  his  dear  mother  wrought — 
The  strange  wild  tales  of  all  the  gods  of  Heaven, 

Who  in  their  bosoms  oft  felt  passion's  swell. 
For  my  own  lays  I  care  not  since  that  even, 

But  those  he  taught,  I  know  them  but  too  well ! 


8i 
HYMN  TO  ZEUS. 

(CLEANTHES.) 

[Classic  antiquity  has  left  us  few  passages  more  elevated  in  thought 
and  feeling  than  this  fragment  of  Cleanthes,  the  disciple  and  suc- 
cessor of  Zeno,  founder  of  the  Stoic  philosophy.  In  its  virtual 
monotheism,  and  in  its  conceptions  of  the  relations  between  good 
and  evil,  it  anticipates  much  later  speculation.] 

FIRST  of  immortals,  ever-reigning  Zeus, 
Invoked  by  many  names,  all  hail  to  Thee, 
The  great  Creator,  who  dost  govern  all  things 
With  never-failing  justice  !     Thus  I  lift 
My  voice  to  Thee,  for  Thou  dost  graciously 
To  mortals  lend  thine  ear.     The  power  of  speech, 
To  man  alone  of  all  that  walk  the  earth, 
Thou  givest,  for  Thou  his  heavenly  Father  art, 
And  he  can  pray  to  Thee — a  priceless  boon  ! 
Thy  praise  shall  ever  be  my  theme;  Thy  power 
And  goodness  be  the  burden  of  my  thought. 

The  universe  which  round  the  earth  is  rolled 
In  all  obeys  Thee,  and  by  Thee  is  ruled  ; 
And  in  Thy  mighty  hand  the  lightning  bolt 
Is  but  an  instrument  to  work  Thy  will — 
Dread  minister  before  whom  Nature  trembles! 
But  Thou  dost  guide  it  with  the  unerring  law 
6 


82 


Which  throughout  all  creation  rules  the  spheres, 
Linking  the  greater  and  the  lesser  orbs. 

Naught  happens  upon  earth  save  through  Thy  will, 

Or  'mid  the  ocean's  dark  abodes,  or  in 

The  starry  firmament  of  heaven.     And  though 

The  senseless  deeds  of  evil  men  might  seem 

To  make  against  Thy  justice,  yet  Thou  hast 

The  might  to  balance  all  things.    Thus  through  Thee 

Order  from  chaos  springs  and  good  from  evil. 

For  in  Thy  wisdom  Thou  hast  blended  so 

The  good  with  ill,  that  there  arises  one 

Law  universal,  from  whose  measureless  bonds 

The  things  of  ill  strive  vainly  to  escape. 

So  they  whose  darkened  souls  cannot  descry 

Thy  wisdom's  fateful  force,  or  recognize 

The  high  reward  of  calm  obedience — 

They  blindly  with  each  other  still  contend, 

Some  seeking  fame,  laborious  to  win, 

Yet  leaving  ever  a  void  within  the  heart, 

That  wastes  itself  in  the  pursuit ;  and  some 

For  gain  themselves  debasing,  rendering  up 

Their  very  souls  to  avarice ;  others  rushing 

Blindly  to  madness,  or  abandoning 

Themselves  to  the  allurements  of  the  senses : 

And  nearing  thus,  by  all  these  devious  paths, 


83 


The  common  goal  of  evil,  each  one  sees 
The  prize  he  labored  for  elude  his  grasp, 
Even  as  he  hoped  to  snatch  it,  and  instead 
He  finds  his  punishment  in  what  he  longed  for. 

Then,  Zeus,  all  bounteous,  ruler  of  high  heaven, 
Dispel  the  baleful  ignorance  which  beclouds 
The  soul  of  man  !     Give  him  to  understand 
That  only  real  wisdom  with  which  Thou 
Dost  guide  the  universe!     In  that  supreme 
And  perfect  knowledge,  he  at  last  will  learn 
How  Thee  to  honor,  and  Thy  might  to  praise. 
Nor  men  nor  gods  can  better  spend  themselves 
Than  praising  Wisdom's  rule  as  shown  in  Thee  ! 


84 

GUARINOS. 

(romancero  castellano.) 

[The  most  popular  of  the  Spanish  ballads  of  the  Carlovingian  cycle.  It 
is  the  melancholy  song  chanted  by  the  peasant  and  overheard  by 
Don  Quijote,  P.  II.  ch.  ix.] 


I 


T  fared  ill  with  you,  ye  Franks,  in  the  Roncesvalles  fray, 
When  your  Charles  fled  in  dishonor,  while  his  twelve 

peers  dying  lay! 
It  was  there  they  took  Guarinos,  the  Frankish  admiral, 
Seven  Moorish  kings  together,  who  each  claimed  him 
for  his  thrall. 


Seven  times  the  lot  they  threw,  and  all  seven  times  it  fell 
To  Marlotes  the  Infante,  the  proud  arch  infidel. 
And  Marlotes  prized  it  higher  than  all  the  Arab  land, 
And  he  spake  thus  to  the  captive,  who  stood  at  his  right 
hand. 

"In  Allah's  name  I  bid  thee,  Guarinos,  to  turn  Moor, 
And  of  riches  and  of  honors  I  will  give  thee  ample  store. 
Behold  I  have  two  daughters,  two  maidens  fair  to  see, 
Both  of  them  shall  be  thine,  for  both  will  I  give  to  thee. 


85 


•'The  one  to  tend  thy  raiment,  and  to  work  thy  jewelled 

shoon; 
The   other,  she  shall  be  thy  wife  ere  wanes  yon  crescent 

moon, 
And  with  her,  as  her  dower,  the  whole  of  Araby — 
And  speak  if  more  thou  wantest,  for  yet  more  I'll  give  to 

thee." 

Then  answered  bold  Guarinos,  "  May  Jesus  work  me  scathe, 

And  His  Mother,  Holy  Mary,  if  I  forsake  His  faith ! 

If  I  forsake  His  faith  for  the  lies  of  false  Mahoun  ! 

And  my  lady  love  in  France,  I  will  wed  with  her  alone!" 

To  a  dungeon  dark  and  noisome  Guarinos  then  was  ta'en, 
With  thick  fetters  on  his  hands,  that  he  ne'er  should  fight 

again, 
With  water  to  his  girdle,  that  he  ne'er  again  should  ride, 
And  of  iron  seven  quintals  were  fastened  to  his  side. 
And  at  Pentecost  and  Christmas  and  at  the  Easter-tide, 
With  cruel  stripes  thrice  yearly,  they  scourged  him  in  their 

pride. 

The  days  they  come,  the  days  they  go,  to  the  day  of  good 

St.  John, 
Which  Christian,  Jew,  and  Moslem,  all  keep  in  unison, 
When  Christians  scatter  rushes,  when  Moors  sweet  myrtle  lay, 
And  Jews  strew  blooming  vetches,  in  honor  of  the  day. 


S6 


To  aid  in  the  rejoicing,  Marlotes  built  on  high 

A  target-frame  so  lofty  that  it  seemed  to  pierce  the  sky. 

With  laughing  zeal  the  Moslem  their  lances  at  it  cast, 

But  all  in  vain,  for  none  had  skill  to  reach  a  height  so  vast. 

In  sullen  wrath  Marlotes  proclaimed  with  trumpet  sound, 
"  No  babe  shall  suck,  no  man  shall  eat,  till  the  targe  lies  on 

the  ground!" 
Guarinos  heard  the  shouting  in  his  dungeon  dark  and  drear — 
"  Now  help  me,  God  in  heaven,  and  His  Holy  Mother  dear, 
Marlotes'  daughter  surely  hath  now  her  bridal  cheer, 
Or  'tis  the  day  of  scourging,  I  had  not  thought  so  near." 

Then  answered  him  the  gaoler,  who  had  heard   him  thus 

complain, 
"  This  is  not  a  royal  bridal,  nor  thy  day  of  stripes  and  pain, 
But  the  feast  of  good  St.  John,  which  of  all  days  in  the  year 
Is  the  blithest  and  the  merriest,  with  sports  and  royal  cheer. 

"And  to  aid  in  the  rejoicing  hath  Marlotes  built  on  high 

A  target-frame  so  lofty  that  it  seems  to  pierce  the  sky, 

But  the  Moors  have  failed  to  reach  it,  and  the  king's  stern 

word  goes  round, 
No  babe  shall  suck,  no  man  shall  eat,  till  the  targe  lies  on 

the  ground  !" 


87 


Then  to  him  spake  Guarinos,  his  words  I  truly  tell, 

"  If  ye '11  give  me  back  my  charger,  who  once  carried  me 

so  well, 
And  give  me  back  my  armor,  and  the  lance  I  wont  to  bear, 
Then  I  that  lofty  target  to  overthrow  will  dare, 
If  I  fail  my  head  is  forfeit,  and  my  blood  ye  need  not  spare  !" 

The  wondering  gaoler  answered,  "  'Tis  seven  full  years  that 

here, 
Yea  seven,  thou  'st  lain  where  no  man  I  thought  could  live 

a  year, 
And  yet  this  feat  to  venture  thou  deem'st  not  overbold  ! 
Have  patience  but  a  little,  and  Marlotes  shall  be  told." 

To  Marlotes  near  the  target  the  gaoler  ran  with  speed — 
"Strange  news  I  bring,  O  listen,  and  graciously  give  heed. 
Guarinos  boasts  thy  target  he  will-  shiver  high  in  air, 
If  thou  his  steed  wilt  give  him,  and  the  arms  he  wont  to 
bear." 

Marlotes  listened  wondering,  then,  swelling  in  his  pride, 
He  bade  them  fetch  Guarinos,  to  see  if  he  could  ride, 
And  bade  them  seek  his  charger,  which,  through  all  that 

weary  time, 
Had  spent  his  noble  vigor  in  daily  hauling  lime. 


88 


They  put  his  armor  on  him,  with  rust  all  deeply  worn  ; 
Marlotes  when  he  saw  him,  with  jibes  and  cruel  scorn, 
Bade  him  to  strike  the  target  and  fell  it  to  the  ground. 
In  fiery  wrath  Guarinos  rushed  forward  with  a  bound, 
And  at  the  first  cast  full  one-half  fell  down  with  thundering 
sound. 

The  Moors  enraged  flew  at  him  and  sought  to  slay  him  there, 
In  multitudes  so  countless  that  they  darkened  all  the  air. 
Like  a  good  knight  Guarinos  his  trusty  sword  laid  bare, 
And  clove  through  mail  and  turban  with  a  strength  beyond 
compare. 

Through  all  that  furious  melley  his  way  he  cut  amain, 
And  onward  pricked  his  charger,  nor  ever  drew  the  rein 
Till  far  away  behind  him  lay  the  distant  hills  of  Spain. 
And  glad  enow  were  the  Franks,  I  trow,  to  welcome  him 
again ! 


89 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  CID. 

(ROMANCERO  DEL  CID.) 

I. 

IN  his  good  town  of  Valencia  lay  the  Cid,  all  spent  and 
worn 
With  the  battles  he  had  won  and  with  the  labors  he  had 
borne, 
When  to  him  tidings  came  which  well  might  give  him  anx- 
ious care, 
For  Bucar  the  Great  was  on  the  march  in  hopes  to  meet  him 

there, 
With  thirty  kings  in  his  array,  and  horse  and  foot  to  spare. 

Upon  his  couch   Rodrigo  tossed,  in   earnest  thought  and 

prayer 
That  God  to  him  in  desperate  strait  would  timely  succor 

bear, 
When  suddenly  at  his  bedside  the  good  Cid  was  aware 
Of  a  man  with  shining  countenance  and  snow-white,  lustrous 

hair. 

"Art  thou  asleep?"  the  Figure  spake  "If  so,  arouse  and 

list!" 
"And  who  art  thou,"  the  Cid  replied,  "who  makest  such 

request?" 


90 


"St.  Peter  am  I  called,  the  chief  of  the  Apostolate, 
And  I  come  to  cheer  thee  in  thy  care,  and  read  to  thee  thy 
fate. 

"  But  thirty  days  of  life  hast  thou  upon  this  earth  to  spend, 

For  God  hath  called  thee  up  to  Heaven,  to  the  life  that  hath 
no  end  ; 

And  in  His  love  He  granteth  thee  a  special  grace,  for 
know 

That,  after  death,  this  proud  Bucar  thou  shalt  meet  and  over- 
throw. 

"With   all  his  vast  array  thy  men  shall  meet  him  in  the 

field, 
And  with  Santiago's  good  help  shall  make  the  Paynim  yield. 
But  thou,  Rodrigo  Campeador,  for  thy  sins  make  amends, 
And   fit  thee   for  that  heavenly  life  which   God  in   mercy 

sends. 

"All  this  doth  God  through  love  of  me,  in  recompense  of 

thine 
Assiduous  service  rendered  me  at  famed  Cardena's  shrine." 
The  good  Cid  much  rejoicing  leaped  from  off  the  bed  to 

greet 
Upon  his  knees  the  Apostle,  and  to  kiss  his  holy  feet. 


9i 


But  Peter  said,  "  In  vain  thou  triest  my  form  to  touch,  yet 
hold 

As  certain  truth  the  things  which  I  this  night  to  thee  have 
told;" 

Then  rose  to  Heaven,  and  left  the  Cid  of  all  his  cares  con- 
soled, 

And  giving  heartfelt  thanks  to  God,  with  spirit  high  and  bold. 

II. 

The  good  Cid  of  Vibar  lies  dead,  released  from  mortal  ills. 
His  trusty  henchman,  Gil  Diaz,  his  last  command  fulfils: 
The  corpse  embalmed,  with  open  eyes,  and  cheeks  with  color 

rife, 
With  beard  and  hair  arranged  with  care,  as  he  was  wont  in 

life, 
Looks  all  so  fair  as  though  he  were  now  ready  for  the  strife. 

With  artful  cunning  Gil  Diaz,  to  make  it  upright  rest, 

Has  placed  it  sitting  in  a  chair,  with  a  board  against  the 

breast, 
And  another  fastened  to  the  back,  the  two  together  tied 
So  deftly  that  the  head  erect  can  sway  to  neither  side. 

'Tis  twelve  days  since  Rodrigo's  soul  to  Heaven  has  passed 

away, 
And  now  his  men  are  all  arrayed  and  eager  for  the  fray, 


92 


To  sally  forth  as  Christians  should,  with  axe  and  lance  and 

sword, 
To  meet  the  King  Bucar  and  all  his  misbelieving  horde. 

At  dead  of  night  the  corpse  is  brought,  and  to  the  saddle-bow 
Of  Bavieca,  his  good  steed,  they  bind  it  fast  enow, 
So  that  it  firmly  sits  upright,  as  he  alive  were  there, 
With  hosen  wrought  in  black  and  white,  like  the  greaves  he 
used  to  wear. 

Around  the  neck  his  shield  is  hung,  with  all  his  arms  dis- 
played, 
And  a  parchment  casque  that  looks  like  steel,  upon  the  head 

is  laid ; 
And  Tizona,  his  own  true  sword,  is  poised  in  the  right  hand, 
Uplifted  high,  as  though  to  chase  the  Moslem  from  his  land. 
The  Bishop,  Don  Geronimo,  on  one  side  closely  rides, 
While  on  the  other  Gil  Diaz  proud  Bavieca  guides. 

Pedro  Bermudez,  bearing  the  Cid's  banner,  leads  the  van, 
With  four  hundred  as  its  guardians,  each  a  gallant  gentleman. 
Then  comes  the  main  array,  each  one  a  man  of  pith  and 

might, 
With  four  hundred  gallant  gentlemen  to  lead  them  in  the 

fight. 


93 


And  next  the  body  of  the  Cid,  with  a  picked  and  chosen 

band 
Of  a  hundred  valiant  cavaliers,  who  ride  on  either  hand. 
Dona  Ximena  follows  last,  with  all  her  lovely  train — 
Six  hundred  knights  in  that  sweet  charge  all  gently  draw  the 

rein. 

At  break  of  day  they  draw  away  from  old  Valencia's  walls. 
Alvar  Fariez  with  fury  first  upon  the  Moslem  falls. 
Right  in  his  front  Estrella  stands — a  Mooress  famed  was  she 
Throughout  all  Islam  for  her  wondrous  skill  in  archery. 

With  Turkish  bow  and  poisoned  reeds  she  slays  men  from 
afar, 

Like  to  some  baleful  planet,  whence  the  name  she  bears— 
the  Star : 

With  hundred  comrades  now  she  leads  the  army  of  Bucar. 

But  the  Christians  charge  so  fiercely  that  they  all  lie  slaugh- 
tered there, 

While  Bucar  and  all  his  thirty  kings  are  palsied  with  despair. 

For  seventy  thousand  cavaliers,  all  white  as  snow,  they  see, 
Bearing  down  on  them  in  the  van  of  the  Christian  chivalry, 
With  one  who  rides  a  charger  white,  more  dreadful  than  the 

rest, 
Of  stately  port,  who  wears  a  blood-red  cross  upon  his  breast; 


94 


A  banner  white  he  waves  on  high,  and  with  a  sword  that 

shines 
Like  living  fire  he   scatters  dire  destruction   through  their 

lines. 

Bucar  and  all  his  thirty  kings  rush  headlong  from  the  fray, 
And  hurry  to  the  neighboring  shore,  where  his  proud  navy 

lay. 
The  Cid's  men  follow,  slaughtering  fast,  and  drive  them  in 

the  sea, 
And  full  ten  thousand  there  are  drowned  in  vain  attempt 

to  flee. 

Bucar  escapes,  but  twenty  kings  lie  stretched  upon  the  plain, 
While  the  Christians  spoil  the  Moslem  camp  and  therein  find 

much  gain, 
In  piles  of  gold  and  silver,  with  rich  plate  and  jewels  rare  — 
Were  none  so  poor  but  now  are  rich,  as  they  that  booty 

share. 

Then  as  the  good  Cid  had  ordained,  that  noble  funeral  train 
Resumes  its  march  through  fair  Castile  unto  St.  Peter's  fane, 
At  famed  Cardena,  where  they  weep  to  lay  him  in  the  grave 
Whom  Spain  shall  ever  honor  as  the  bravest  of  the  brave ! 


95 
MOORISH  BALLAD. 

Sung  previous  to  the  rising  of  the  Moriscos  in  1568. 

[The  first  confirmation  of  the  rumors  of  the  Morisco  rebellion  was  de- 
rived from  a  Spanish  translation  of  this  ballad,  sent  with  an  inter- 
cepted letter  by  the  Marques  de  Mondejar  to  Philip  II.  in  1568 
(Marmol,  Hist,  del  Rebelion  y  Castigo  de  los  Moros,  in.  ix.).  It 
derives  interest  from  its  elevated  conceptions  of  God,  its  hearty  con- 
tempt for  the  less  simple  Catholic  theology  and  ritual,  and  its  vivid 
picture  of  persecution  endured.] 

LET  the  God  of  love  and  mercy's  name  begin  and  end 
our  theme — 
Sovereign   He  o'er  all  the  nations,  of  all  things  the 
Judge  Supreme  : 
He  who  gave  the  book  of  wisdom,  He  who  made  His  image, 

man, 
He  chastiseth,  He  forgiveth,  He  who  framed  creation's  plan. 

He  the  One  sole  God  of  Heaven,  He  the  One  sole  God  of 

earth, 
He  who  guards  us  and  supports  us,  He  from  whom  all  things 

had  birth; 
He  who  never  had  beginning,  sovereign  Lord  of  the  high 

throne, 
He  whose  providence  guides  all  things,  subject  to  His  will 

alone. 


96 

He  who  gave  us  Holy  Scripture,  who  made  Adam,  and  who 

planned 
Man's  salvation,  He  who  gives  their  strength  to  nations  from 

His  hand  ; 
He  who  raised  the  Saints  and  Prophets,  ending  with  Mahoun 

the  greatest — 
Praise  the  One  sole  God  of  Heaven,  with  all  His  Saints,  from 

first  to  latest  ! 

Listen,  while  I  tell  the  story  of  Andalusia's  fate — 
Peerless  once  and  world-renowned  in  all  that  makes  a  nation 

great ; 
Prostrate  now  and  compassed  round  by  heretics  with  cruel 

force — 
We,  her  sons,  like  driven  sheep,  or  horseman  on  unbridled 

horse. 

Torture  is  our  daily  portion,  subtle  craft  our  sole  resource, 
Till  we  welcome  death  to  free  us  from  a  fate  that 's  ever 

worse. 
They  have  set  the  Jews  to  watch  us,  Jews  that  know  nor 

truth  nor  faith, 
Every  day  they  find  some  new  device  to  work  us  further 

scathe. 


97 


We  are  forced  to  worship  with  them  in  their  Christian  rites 

unclean, 
To  adore  their  painted  idols,  mockery  of  the  Great  Unseen. 
No  one  dares  to  make  remonstrance,  no  one  dares  to  speak 

a  word  ; 
Who  can  tell  the  anguish  wrought  on  us,  the  faithful  of  the 

Lord? 

When  the  bell  tolls,  we  must  gather  to  adore  the  image  foul ; 

In  the  church  the  preacher  rises,  harsh-voiced  as  a  scream- 
ing owl ; 

He  the  wine  and  pork  invoketh,  and  the  Mass  is  wrought 
with  wine ; 

Falsely  humble,  he  proclaimeth  that  this  is  the  Law  divine. 

Yet  the  holiest  of  their  shavelings  nothing  knows  of  right  or 

wrong, 
And  they  bow  before  their  idols,  shameless  in  the  shameless 

throng. 
Then  the  priest   ascends   the   altar,  holding  up  a  cake  of 

bread, 
And  the  people  strike  their  bosoms  as  the  worthless  Mass  is 

said. 

All  our  names  are  set  in  writing,  young  and  old  are  sum- 
moned all ; 
Every  four  months  the  official  makes  on  all  suspect  his  call. 

7 


98 


Each  of  us  must  show  his  permit,  or  must  pay  his  silver  o'er, 

As  with  inkhorn,  pen,  and  paper,  on  he  goes  from  door  to 
door. 

Dead  or  living,  each  must  pay  it ;  young  or  old,  or  rich  or 
poor; 

God  help  him  who  cannot  do  it,  pains  untold  he  must  en- 
dure ! 

They  have  framed  a  false  religion ;  idols  sitting  they  adore ; 
Seven  weeks  fast  they,  like  the  oxen  who  at  noon-tide  eat  the 

more. 
In  the  priest  and  the  confession  they  their  baseless  law  fulfil, 
And  we,  too,  must  feign  believing,  lest  they  do  us  further 

ill. 

Toil  they  spare  not  to  entrap  us,  day  and  night,  and  far  and 

near, 
Whoso  praises  God  aloud  cannot  escape  destruction  here. 
Vain  were  hiding,  vain  were  flight,  when  once  the  spies  are 

on  his  track, 
Should  he  gain  a  thousand  leagues,  they  follow  him  and 

bring  him  back. 

In  their  hideous  jails  they  throw  him,  every  hour  fresh  ter- 
rors weave, 

From  his  ancient  faith  to  tear  him,  as  they  cry  to  him  "  Be- 
lieve!" 


99 


And  the  poor  wretch,  weeping,  wanders  on  from  hopeless 

thought  to  thought, 
Like  a  swimmer  in   mid   ocean,  by  the  blinding  tempest 

caught. 

Long  they  keep  him  wasting,  rotting,  in  the  dungeon  foul 

and  black, 
Then  they  torture  him  until  his  limbs  are  broken  on  the  rack, 
Then  within  the  Plaza  Hatabin  the  crowds  assemble  fast, 
Like  unto  the  Day  of  Judgment  they  erect  a  scaffold  vast. 
If  one  is  to  be  released,  they  clothe  him  in  a  yellow  vest, 
While  with  hideous  painted  devils  to  the  flames  they  give  the 

rest. 

Thus  are  we  encompassed  round  as  with  a  fiercely  burning 

fire, 
Wrongs  past  bearing  are  heaped  on  us,  higher  yet  and  ever 

higher. 
Vainly  bend  we   to   their   mandates;    Sundays,   feast-days 

though  we  keep, 
Fasting  Saturdays  and  Fridays,  never  safety  can  we  reap. 

Each  one  of  their  petty  despots  thinks  that  he  can  make  the 

law, 
Each  invents  some  new  oppression.     Now  a  sharper  sword 

they  draw ! 


IOO 

New  Year's  day  in  Bib-el-Bonut  they  proclaimed  some  edicts 

new, 
Startling  sleepers   from   their  slumbers,  as  each  door  they 

open  threw. 

Baths  and  garments,  all  our  old  ancestral  customs  are  for- 
bidden, 

To  the  Jews  are  we  delivered,  who  can  spoil  us  still  un- 
chidden. 

Little  reck  the  priest  and  friar  so  they  trample  on  us  yet; 

Like  a  dove  in  vulture  talons,  we  are  more  and  more  beset. 

Hopeless,  then,  of  man's  assistance,  we  have  searched  the 

prophets  o'er, 
Seeking  promise  in  the  judgments  which  our  fathers  writ  of 

yore; 
And  our  wise  men  counsel  us  to  look  to  God  with  prayer 

and  fast — 
Haply  through  fresh  suffering  will  He  deliver  us  at  last! 

I  have  done ;  but  life  were  short  our  sorrows  fully  to  recall. 
Kind  Seiiores,  do  not  blame  me,  if  I  am  too  weak  for  all. 
Whoso  chants  these  rugged  verses,  let  his  prayers  to  God 

arise, 
That  His  mercy  may  vouchsafe  me  the  repose  of  Paradise  1 


101 

DANTE. 

(MICHELANGELO.) 

THROUGH  blind  abysmal  depths  he  plunged,  and  there 
He  viewed  the  twin  abodes  of  souls  in  pain  : 
Then  rose  to  God,  returned  to  earth  again, 
And  taught  the  truths  that  he  alone  could  dare. 

A  brilliant  star,  his  rays  of  lustre  rare 

Revealed  to  man  the  dim,  eternal  reign. 

And  his  the  portion  which  the  world  profane 
Is  wont  to  make  its  chiefest  heroes  share. 

For  Dante's  noble  toil  and  purpose  high 

Met  foul  return  from  that  ungrateful  herd, 
Withholding  favor  only  from  the  good. 
Were  I  but  such !     Might  I  such  fate  but  try ! 

Earth's  costliest  gifts  I  'd  hold  in  slight  regard 
To  gain  his  exile  with  his  lofty  mood  ! 


102 

LAURA. 

(PETRARCH  ) 

WHEN  Love  seems  lurking  in  each  radiant  face 
Of  these  fair  girls,  my  senses  to  enthrall, 
So  much  as  she  is  fairer  than  them  all, 
So  much  the  more  my  passion  grows  apace. 
And  then  I  bless  the  time,  the  hour,  the  place, 
When  first  on  her  my  glances  dared  to  fall : 
And  gratefully  upon  my  soul  I  call 
"Give  thanks  that  thou  hast  won  so  rare  a  grace — 
That  holy  love  for  which  thou  long  hast  striven, 
Lifting  the  faithful  heart  to  realms  above, 
Disdaining  all  that  common  mortals  love, 
And  strengthening  in  thee  the  resolves  which  move 
Thee  still  to  labor  on  thy  way  to  heaven!" 
And  thus  to  me  a  nobler  life  is  given  ! 


DE  PROFUXDIS. 


W 


E  are  born,  we  know  not  why, 
We  toil,  through  want  and  care; 
Worn  out,  at  last  we  die, 

And  go,  we  know  not  where. 


We  suffer,  we  inflict, 

Unknowing  what  we  do  : 

We  gain,  to  find  us  tricked  ; 
We  lose,  to  idly  rue. 

If  the  soul,  impatient,  aims 
At  something  higher,  better, 

The  flesh  asserts  its  claims, 
And  will  not  loose  its  fetter. 


Nor  Hindu  sage,  nor  Greek 
Can  aid  our  impotence  : 

The  highest  goal  they  seek 
Is  dumb  indifference. 


(103) 


104 

The  Christian's  nobler  plan 

But  palliates  the  ill : 
All  man  can  do  for  man 

Leaves  Earth  in  misery  still. 

The  riddle  who  can  read  ? 

Who  guess  the  reason  why? 
We  know  but  this,  indeed, 

We  are  born,  we  grieve,  we  die  ! 


THE  NATION'S  TRIAL.     (1861.) 

O  Romagnuoli,  tornati  in  bastardi. — Purgat.  xvi. 

SWORD  of  our  fathers  !     In  the  sheath 
Through  long  years  hast  thou  idly  lain, 
Now  with  firm  hand  and  reverent  faith 
We  sternly  draw  thee  forth  again. 

Strange  human  heart,  that  turns  to  gall 
God's  choicest  fruits  !     To  us  were  given 

Kind  Nature,  wondrous  Science,  all 
That  man  can  ask  of  earth  or  heaven. 


10: 


But  lust  of  gain,  and  selfish  greed 
Of  vulgar  power  and  empty  show 

Have  weighed  us  down,  till  thought  and  deed 
Centre  on  sordid  aims  and  low. 

Corrupted  by  this  earthly  stain 

Our  souls  have  lost  their  nobler  guise, 

And  now  we  feel  the  fiery  rain 
Which  or  destroys  or  purifies. 

God  grant  that  we  have  something  still 
Of  that  stern  stuff  which  bore  our  sires 

Unshrinkingly  through  good  and  ill, 
That  we  may  stand  those  ordeal-fires. 

Then,  Sword,  leap  forth,  and  in  the  strife 
Shall  those  foul  stains  be  hewn  away. 

High  thoughts,  high  deeds,  a  nobler  life 
Our  agony  shall  well  repay! 


io6 


THE  HOLOCAUST.     (1861.) 

"  Their  silver  and  their  gold  shall  not  be  able  to  deliver  them  in  the  day 
of  the  wrath  of  the  Lord." — Ezekiel  vii. 

WITHIN  our  country's  sacred  fane, 
Low  burns  the  altar's  flickering  light. 
Trembling  we  watch  it  slowly  wane — 

That  lost,  what  star  shall  guide  our  night  ? 

Then  gather  round  that  holy  flame 
And  bring  your  choicest  offerings  here. 

What  dearest  victims  can  ye  name, 
For  such  a  sacrifice  too  dear? 

Pour  forth  your  blood,  pile  up  your  gold — 
'Tis  well — but  more  than  these  we  need. 

No  nation's  life  is  bought  and  sold, 
Nor  saved  alone  by  valorous  deed. 

Then  here  your  cherished  vices  bring: 

Your  luxury's  degrading  ease; 
The  reckless  pride  with  which  ye  cling 

To  wealth's  most  abject  vanities; 

Your  worship  of  successful  fraud ; 
Your  want  of  faith  in  nobler  aims; 


107 

Your  blind  self-seeking,  and  the  broad 
Ignoring  of  all  loftier  claims  ; 

Your  partisanship  which  beguiles 
To  faction's  aid  its  clamorous  tools ; 

Your  apathy,  which  feebly  smiles 

When  power  is  clutched  by  knaves  and  fools. 

Come,  offer  in  our  solemn  rite 
Each  sordid  vice  and  base  desire ; 

Rise  up  in  manhood's  simple  might, 

And  naught  shall  quench  our  altar's  fire  ! 


THE  ARMIES  OF  THE  UNION.     (1861. 


FROM  Maine's  deep- wooded  hills  to  far  Pacific's  Golden 
Gate, 
They  gather  to  the  battle,  like  the  answering  step  of 
fate. 
They  ask  not  who  their  leaders  be,  they  only  know  the  cause : 
Old  feuds  are  hushed  as  each  one  round  the  sacred  banner 
draws. 


io8 


They  come  not  here  to  plunder  foes,  they  are  not  urged  by 

hate, 
Nor  lured  by  hopes  of  conquest,  or  Ambition's  glittering 

bait. 
No  conscripts  they,  constrained  to  fight  at  any  master's  nod, 
But  each  a  freeman  proud  who  bows  the  knee  to  only  God. 

Each  claims  the  nation  as  a  whole,  from  distant  shore  to 

shore, 
To  each  belongs  the  starry  flag  his  fathers  raised  of  yore, 
And  each  has  sworn  no  rebel  knave  shall  rend  the  land  in 

twain, 
Or  blot  one  star  from  off  that  flag,  so  long  without  a  stain. 

Sprung  from  a  martial  race  are  they,  yet  peaceful  toils  alone, 
In  building  up  an    empire  vast,   their  sturdy  hands  have 

known, 
But  now  the  plough,  the  loom,  the  pen  are  sternly  cast  aside, 
As  the  Nation  rises  in  its  wrath  to  cast  down  treason's  pride. 

Full  many  a  soldier's  grave  there  '11  be,  full  many  a  dark- 
ened home, 

Where  wife  and  mother  sickening  wait  for  him  who  ne'er 
shall  come, 

Yet  for  each  one  who  nobly  falls  another  stands  prepared, 

To  take  his  place,  to  wield  his  arms,  and  dare  all  he  had 
dared. 


109 


If  fate  should  frown,  and  treason's  flag,  o'er  many  a  stricken 

field 
Should  proudly  flaunt,  theirs  is  a  blood  that  knows  not  how 

to  yield  ; 
For  gathering  strength  with  each    reverse,  those  stubborn 

bands  would  grow, 
As  the  torrent  swells  against  the  rocks  that  vainly  check  its 

flow. 

Oh  could  they  fail,  man's  hopes  would  fail  of  freedom  ever- 
more ! 

The  peaceful  reign  of  unarmed  law  and  equal  rights  were 
o'er. 

Then  close  your  lines  and  strike  home  deep  amid  the  traitor 
clan — 

No  nobler  cause  the  world  has  seen  since  man  first  warred 
with  man. 


no 


THE  LESSON  OF  WAR.     (1861.) 

Lex  est,  non  poena,  perire. — Martial. 


w 


ILD  warriors  of  the  past,  whose  flashing  swords 

Light  up  with  fitful  gleams  the  misty  night 
Of  half-forgotten  eld,  in  fiery  words, 

Ye  teach  a  truth  'twere  well  we  read  aright. 


God  sends  the  gentle  breeze  to  woo  the  flower, 
And  stir  the  pulses  of  the  ripening  corn. 

He,  too,  lets  loose  the  whirlwind's  vengeful  power, 
To  quench  the  plagues  of  foul  stagnation  born. 

And  thus  in  love,  although  disguised  as  wrath, 
He  sends  His  hidden  blessings  in  the  storm, 

Which  dashes  down,  on  its  resistless  path, 
The  hoar  abuses  that  defied  reform. 

When  Cyrus  ravaged  fair  Chaldaea's  plain 

And  mocked  the  strength  of  Babylon's  haughty  wall, 

The  proud  Assyrian's  guilt  had  earned  the  chain, 
And  man  rejoiced  to  mark  the  oppressor's  fall. 

And  when,  made  drunk  with  power,  the  Persian  lost 
The  stern  and  simple  virtues  of  his  race, 

His  baffled  efforts  and  his  slaughtered  host 

Enriched  the  world  with  Grecian  power  and  grace. 


Ill 


Then  Greece,  her  swift  career  of  glory  stayed, 
Exhausted  by  her  madman's  triumphs  lay, 

Till  Rome's  protecting  arm  the  loss  repaid 
Of  Corinth's  sack,  and  Pydna's  fatal  day. 

Imperial  Rome  !     Though  crime  succeeded  crime, 
As  Earth  fell  prostrate  neath  her  giant  tread, 

Still  shall  her  subjects  reap  to  endless  time 
The  priceless  harvests  by  her  wisdom  spread. 

What  though  the  stern  proconsul's  iron  rule 

Close  followed  on  the  legion's  merciless  sword? 

Laws,  arts,  and  culture,  in  that  rigid  school, 
Evoked  a  nation  from  each  savage  horde. 

And  when,  at  last,  her  crimes  reacting  wrought 
Their  curse  upon  herself,  to  her,  supine 

And  helpless,  the  Barbarian  spoiler  brought, 
With  fire  and  sword,  new  life  to  her  decline. 

Theodoric,  Clovis,  Charles,  your  endless  strife, 
From  Weser's  marsh  to  Naples'  laughing  bay, 

Was  but  the  throe  that  marked  the  nascent  life, 
Emerging  from  the  worn-out  world's  decay. 

Ye  were,  amid  that  elemental  war, 

But  straws  to  show  its  course.     Ye  toiled,  and  won, 


112 


Or  lost ;  your  people  bled — yet  slow  and  far 
The  mighty  cause  of  man  pressed  ever  on. 

Long  has  the  travail  been.     Kings,  Kaisers,  Popes, 
The  rude  Crusader  and  the  Pagan  Dane, 

Each  centred  in  his  own  ambitious  hopes, 
But  helped  the  cause  he  labored  to  restrain. 

Hildebrand's  voice  sets  Christendom  on  fire  ; 

Neath  Frederic's  plough  sinks  Milan's  lofty  wall  , 
Unnumbered  victims  glut  De  Montfort's  ire  \ 

From  Ezzelin's  dungeon  shrieks  the  night  appal — 

If  the  tide  ebbs,  'tis  but  to  flow  again. 

Each  fierce  convulsion  gains  some  vantage  ground. 
Man's  fettered  limbs  grow  stronger,  and  the  chain 

Falls  link  by  link  at  each  tumultuous  bound. 

The  timid  burgher  dons  the  helm  and  shield, 
The  wretched  hind  reluctant  grasps  the  bow, 

To  fight  their  master's  quarrels.     Courtrai's  field 
And  Sempach's  hill  that  lesson's  worth  may  show. 

The  restless  soul  still  yearns  for  things  unknown  : 
It  chafes  against  its  fetters,  seeks  the  way 

That  leads  to  freedom,  but  the  sword  alone 

Makes  good  the  dreams  that  else  would  but  betray. 


13 


See,  Luther  speaks,  and  Europe  flies  to  arms : 
Her  stubborn  fight  outlasts  a  hundred  years, 

A  thousand  fields  her  richest  life-blood  warms, 

Yet  e'en  the  vanquished  gain  what  pays  their  tears. 

If  Orange  and  Gustavus  conquering  died, 
Not  Coligny  nor  Hampden  fell  in  vain, 

For  one  domain  escaped  the  furious  tide, 

And  peace  made  that  one  desolate — faithful  Spain! 

So  when  men  dallied  with  the  treasonous  theme — 

Equality  for  man  on  earth  as  heaven — 
It  was  but  speculation's  idlest  theme 

Till  by  the  sword  the  time-wrought  bonds  were  riven. 

Though  Moscow,  Leipzig,  Waterloo  might  seem 
To  roll  the  tide  back,  they  but  marked  its  flood ; 

Nor  could  the  Holy  Allies'  darkest  scheme 
Restore  the  wrongs  so  well  effaced  in  blood. 

The  end  is  not  yet.     God's  mysterious  way 
Evolves  its  purpose  in  its  destined  time. 

Vainly  we  seek  the  fated  march  to  stay — 
All  things  subserve  it,  wisdom,  folly,  crime. 

8 


ii4 


We  are  His  instruments.     The  past  has  bled 
For  us.     We  suffer  for  the  future  dim. 

Then  bravely  face  the  darkness  round  us  spread, 
Do  each  his  duty — leave  the  rest  with  Him  ! 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  GETTYSBURG.    (1863.) 


T  I  THE  sternest  valor  in  the  holiest  cause 

Exalted  those  whose  hallowed  dust  lies  here. 
They  fell  for  freedom,  right,  and  equal  laws, 
Nor  vain  the  sacrifice,  however  dear. 


1 


Mourn  not  for  them,  but  thank  thy  God  that  He 
Lifted  their  souls  to  meet  their  country's  call. 

Learn  thou  the  duty  that  befits  the  free, 
And  teach  thy  children  thus  to  nobly  fall ! 


# 


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